


Old friends, new enemies, and vice versa

by nlans



Series: Cecily Trevelyan [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Female Friendship, M/M, new relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naia Tabris tells Leliana why she's been missing, and various crises come to a head in Skyhold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two reunions

* * *

 

**A Grey Warden camp in the Free Marches, 9:37 Dragon**  

Naia stood up from the little desk and slammed its lid down as hard as she could. For a minute she thought it might collapse, but the camp supplier had learned his lesson about Warden strength. The desk wobbled, but held. She leapt to steady a small bottle of perfume, the one Zev had given her on the ship from Antiva City. It meant a lot to her that Zevran had paused to pick out a gift for her before they killed that Guildmaster.

Thinking about Zev calmed her a bit. She was able to still her fury and focus, breathe through her nose. _Think, damn it. Think_. But this wasn’t a problem she could untangle just by thinking at it. _Andraste’s flaming knickers. What am I going to do?_

“I see I have come at a bad time.”

Years of training kept Naia from shrieking and leaping out of her skin. Instead, she only jumped a little as she turned to face the speaker.

A red-haired woman dressed all in black was standing in the door to Naia’s tent. Duncan the mabari was sitting at her side, panting happily as the visitor scratched his ears. The woman smiled. “Duncan has said hello. Won’t you?”

“Leliana!” Her bad mood suddenly forgotten, Naia stepped forward to embrace her friend.

Leliana returned the hug, but scolded, “You should not be letting people sneak up on you.”

Naia stepped back and pushed her hand through her hair, ruining her braid in the process. “I know. I don’t make a habit of it, I swear. It hasn’t been a good day.”

Leliana’s mouth thinned. “I can see that. What is it that troubles you so?”

Naia shook her head. “You first. What brings you here?”

“I am headed to Kirkwall on a matter of some secrecy. The Divine is worried that—well, no matter.”

“Let me guess. Mages and Templars?” Naia asked, arching an eyebrow.

Normally Leliana would have applauded a correct deduction. This one made her face fall. “Things at the Circle must truly be bad, if you have heard about it all the way out here.”

The worry on Leliana’s face shook Naia. Belatedly, she remembered that her friend worked for the Chantry now. She tried to backstep. “Well, one of our Wardens—a Ferelden, actually—he used to live in Kirkwall. His friends send him letters. It sounds as if things have been difficult since the old Viscount died.” She frowned. “I hope you plan to do something about this Knight-Commander Meredith. She sounds half mad. She’s even been bullying Alistair about Ferelden giving harbor to mages.”

Leliana dropped her gaze and made a little cooing noise at the dog. “Well, those are problems for another day, no? I heard there were Grey Wardens in the area and took a chance that you might be with them. And, here you are.” She raised her head and met Naia’s eyes. “But not in the spirits I would have wished for you.”

Leliana’s head was tilted in concern, an expression Naia knew well. But … there was something just a bit calculated in the gesture, now. Not for the first time, Naia wondered just what her friend had been up to since Alistair’s coronation. She knew Leliana had returned to the chantry when her friend had become Divine Justinia V, and that she bore the somewhat mysterious title of "Left Hand of the Divine." But not even Zev could untangle exactly what it was that Leliana did, and whenever she asked, Leliana would make vague comments about beckoning and reaching.

“And so? What troubles you?”

For a moment, Naia considered saying nothing. She hated herself for that hesitation—if she could not trust Leliana, who had combed her hair for Alistair’s coronation and held her while she wept for Lady Isolde, what was wrong with the world?

She took the seat behind her desk and gestured to the chair opposite it, the comfortable one she kept for visitors. Duncan trotted over and put his head in Naia’s lap. Naia stroked his back fondly. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumor that the Blight in Fereldan wasn’t a true blight.”

Leliana frowned. “Indeed. It is not a rumor that anyone dares mention in my presence. I am surprised that such nonsense troubles you.”

Naia chuckled mirthlessly. “It didn’t, until I heard it whispered among the Wardens in the Free Marches. Then a few people felt confident enough to say it to my face. So Zev decided to figure out where it was coming from.” She tightened her fist, the one that wasn’t occupied petting the dog. “I had a letter from Zev today. I decoded it just now. Do you know who started the rumor, Leliana? The bloody Grey Warden command in Orlais, that’s who.”

Leliana’s mouth dropped open in genuine shock. “That cannot be. Naia, you cannot trace a rumor with certainty. I am certain Zevran told you that.”

“Maybe they didn’t invent the rumor,” Naia conceded. “But they have been spreading it. Carefully, never in letters, only in words. And the worst part? It sounds _sensible,_ Leliana. Our Blight never spread beyond the borders of Fereldan, and more importantly, I’m not dead. How could it have been an Archdemon, then? How could this have been a real Blight?” She rubbed her left hand over her eyes. Duncan made a low growl in his throat, sensing his mistress’s unhappiness.

“But why? Why would the Wardens spread such lies?” Once, Leliana’s eyes would have been wide with indignation and some shock. Now, she looked furious, but grim and not entirely surprised.

“The _Orlesian_ Wardens,” Naia corrected sourly. “Who think I’m ‘a vulgar little elf and an embarrassment to the Order,’ according to one Orlesian Warden-Commander.” _That,_ they’d been willing to put in a letter. Zev had found it in the office of a high-ranking Orlesian military official. Then he’d made a side trip to fill the Commander’s office with embarrassing pornographic books. He’d also made arrangements with various merchants in Val Royeaux to keep the pornography shipments coming. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for Naia.

Leliana’s eyes narrowed. “Not even Wardens are immune from professional jealousy, I suppose.”

Naia sighed. “That’s the flattering way to put it. But it turns out I broke nearly every rule for good Wardening on my way to the Archdemon. Meddled in politics, found allies, made friends and enemies, stuck up for elves. The Grey Wardens are supposed to be neutral, as Weisshaupt never tires of telling me. Even though everyone knows the First Warden is neck-deep in Anderfels politics.” She was quiet for a moment. “They’re happy enough to have a Hero of Ferelden, they just wish I was properly dead like I’m supposed to be. Maybe Weisshaupt wants me out of the way, disgraced and gone.”

“I do not think so. If they thought you were so damaging, the Warden leadership would simply have you killed,” Leliana said practically. “You would die and they could mold your image however they liked. Only rivals would seek to discredit you rather than see you dead.”

“That’s … reassuring,” Naia said, suddenly casting her eyes around the room for any assassins. Well, besides the one sitting in the chair next to hers.

“I mean you may yet have friends at Weisshaupt,” Leliana said. “Or, at least, that Weisshaupt is probably _not_ the source of your troubles.”

“I suppose not. But they’re not doing anything to prevent it, either. In fact, I think they’re moving to isolate me. They drove off my friend Anders by partnering him with a sadistic ex-Templar. Now they’ve summoned me and Nathaniel Howe from Amaranthine for a ‘summit on post-Blight strategies,’ and we’d barely been here a minute before they decided to send Nathaniel off on some ghastly expedition to the deepest Deep Roads.”

Fairness prompted her to add, “They’ve promised him a cut of any treasure they find, and Nathaniel wants to go—he wants the money for his sister. Still, the fact that they want him specifically—it worries me. He practically runs Amaranthine now.” Naia had quickly learned that she had no gift for politics or account books, and Nathaniel had been only too glad to see to it that his family’s old estate ran smoothly. “He leaves in a week, right after the meeting starts.”

“I do find this suspicious, yes.” Leliana looked genuinely troubled.

“The worst part? The rumor hurts Alistair too.” Naia bared her teeth. “That may be what they’re after, in the end. If I’m not the Hero of Ferelden, then Alistair’s just a false King installed with the help of a fraud.” She struck her hand against the arm of the chair. “Damn it! If he’s deposed there won’t be anywhere he’ll be safe. They’ll put Anora back on the throne and she’ll have him killed to eliminate the competition.”

Leliana leaned over and covered Naia’s hand with hers. “There are many steps between a few whispered rumors and Alistair going into hiding, Naia. Do not get ahead of yourself.”

Naia stood and began to pace the tent restlessly. “I don’t know how to fight this, Leliana. The Archdemon had a head and a body. I could kill it. I can’t kill a rumor. Well, Zev insists you can kill a rumor too if you kill all the right people.” She smiled fondly. “But I think getting rid of this one would require an impractical amount of killing.”

“I will do what I can to counter this slander," Leliana assured her. "Perhaps it is time for some rumors to be started about your Orlesian Warden-Commander, no?”

Naia grinned in delight. “I may be able to help with that. I hear he has a shockingly large collection of very obscene pornography.”

 

* * *

 

**Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon**  

“So. The Inquisition. Did you have to sit around thinking up terrifying names for your new organization, or did you settle on the most intimidating one right away?” Naia asked. The elf was tilted back in her chair, her feet on the windowsill, a goblet of wine in her hand. Leliana reminded herself not to try to match Naia drink for drink; she could not keep up with Warden metabolism.

That memory tickled something a bit at the back of her mind. Something about Blackwall … No matter.

“If we had found you and asked you to be the Inquisitor, as we’d hoped, would you have changed the name?” she joked.

“You were going to ask me to lead this thing?” Naia sat up very straight. “Andraste’s ass, Leliana. Were you drunk? I think you must have been drunk. Or maybe you hit your head.”

“It was a splendid idea!” Leliana protested. “With the Hero of Ferelden as our leader, who could doubt our intentions or our purpose?”

“I was in charge of Vigil's Keep for six months and people tried to storm our gates with torches and pitchforks. I’m a fighter, Leliana, not a diplomat or an administrator.”

“False modesty does not become you, Naia.” Leliana shook her head.

“It’s not false modesty. I just know what I’m good at,” Naia argued. “Give me an enemy and a small team and I’ll find a way to get us through. Hand me a ledger or ask me to plan political strategies and I’m average, at best. If it hadn’t been for Nathaniel I think Amaranthine would have, I don’t know, _exploded_ or something by now.”

“I was pleased to learn he survived the trip to the Deep Roads,” Leliana said.

“Only thanks to his sister and the Champion of Kirkwall,” Naia groaned. “I swear, if he’d gotten himself killed I would have found a way to travel to the Afterlife so I could haul him back out and kick him. Repeatedly.”

Leliana laughed. “If anyone could manage that, it would be you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then Naia cleared her throat. “You must be wondering where I’ve been.”

“Oh? Have you been gone? I’d hardly noticed,” Leliana said dryly.

Naia stuck her tongue out at the former bard. “Glad to hear I wasn’t missed. Well, you knew about the trouble I was having with the Wardens. So about two years ago I decided to leave Nathaniel in charge of the Ferelden Wardens to find a cure for the Calling, and for the Taint.” She sighed. “Alistair’s getting pressure to marry—more pressure than usual. He’s hesitating because he knows he’ll have trouble fathering a child.”

Leliana winced in sympathy. “Indeed. Why shackle himself to a marriage of convenience when its object will still remain out of reach?”

Naia nodded. “But he needs an heir. And so Zev and I set out to find Fiona, the only Warden who’s ever been cured of the Taint. But didn’t the mage rebellion complicate _that_. Every time we tracked her down she’d pick up and move again, trying to evade the Templars—and we’d heard that she doesn’t know much about what happened, in any case.” Naia took a sip of wine. “So, long story short, we got desperate and went to find The Architect. He owes me one, after all.”

Only Naia would know a talking Darkspawn who owed her a favor. “Did you find him?”

The Warden shook her head. “Not yet. Based on what your people told me I suspect Corypheus may be to blame. If Corypheus can create a false Calling in Wardens, who knows what he can do to Darkspawn. The Architect will have pulled his people as far away from Corypheus as possible. I can’t say I blame him. So, Zev and I split up to track our last few leads, and that’s when your people found me. I'm hoping Zev might get my message and join us here. He'd like to see you again.”

The thought of a visit from the elven assassin made Leliana smile. “Fiona is in Skyhold, you know,” she said.

“I’d heard. I’m hoping to speak with her while I’m here.” Naia scowled. “I’ll try to keep things civil. But I can’t believe what she did in Redcliffe, after everything Alistair did for the rebel mages. An alliance with Tevinter? Andraste’s flaming sword, who looks at the Magisterium and says ‘Yes, these are exactly the kind of allies I want! I am clearly making excellent decisions if blood mages are on my side!’”

Her face tightened. “Well. A lot of people, these days, apparently.”

Naia swung her feet down to the floor, set her wine on the table, and looked at Leliana seriously. “Tell me what happened at Adamant. I’ve heard rumors, but …”

Leliana sighed. She had known this was coming. “It will not be easy to hear,” she warned her friend.

Naia closed her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t think it would be.”

*

“Shit,” Naia said eloquently when Leliana had finished the story. She pressed the heels of her hands into her forehead. “ _Shit._ Taking myself out of the Warden power struggles seemed like a good idea at the time, and curing the Calling was—is—a good goal. But … I’m sorry, Leliana. I should have been there to stop this.” There was real agony in Naia’s eyes.

“You could not have known,” Leliana said. “And I doubt it was an accident that Corypheus singled out the Orlesian Wardens. He chose the very place where you held the least influence.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, saw that she was twisting her fingers. “Truthfully, I am glad you were not there. I feared—at Adamant, I feared I would find your corpse.”

Naia reached out and put her hand on top of Leliana’s. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” she said.

Leliana turned her hand up to squeeze her friend’s. “Do not be. I will always worry about you—you do find yourself in dangerous situations with remarkable regularity, after all. But I also have faith that you will come out of them, if anyone can.”

“Are you well?” Naia asked softly. “The Divine’s death must have been awful for you. I know how close you were.”

“It has been difficult,” Leliana admitted. She bit her lower lip—a nervous gesture that she could not remember making in years. “As her Left Hand, there were many things that I did that I—that I would not wish you to know about. I … I became a person to be feared. More like Marjolaine than I would have wished. I am trying to find my way back. But it is not always easy to find a balance between doing what is necessary, and doing what is right.”

“I know what you mean,” Naia sighed. “You know what? I think we may need more wine.”


	2. Nighttime at Skyhold

* * *

 

“The Skyhold wine cellar, eh?”

“It’s my only hope of finding a decent bottle in this Southern backwater. I know Josephine keeps better stock hidden down here,” Dorian said.

“Uh-huh,” The Iron Bull said. “And you asked me to come with you because …?”

“Because you’re the tallest person here, which means you can reach the bottles at the top, which is likely where they’ve hidden the wine that’s actually drinkable,” Dorian said. _Damn the man. He’s actually going to make me say it, isn’t he? He’s actually expecting_ me _to ask_ him _._

Soft, feminine giggles floated out of the wine cellar as they approached. Dorian paused, wondering if they’d happened upon someone else’s private moment.

“Oh! Be careful!” said an Orlesian-accented voice.

“Is that _Sister Leliana_?” Dorian said, delightfully scandalized.

“You said the best bottles were at the top. So I’m getting them,” another voice answered.

“They sound clothed,” The Iron Bull said, pushing the door open.

Leliana was standing at the bottom of the wine rack, laughing, her hood down around her shoulders and her red hair glinting in the light from the torch on the wall. It took Dorian a moment to recognize her; the expression on her face was that different from her usual mysterious smirk. Above her was an elf who had climbed to the top of the rack, her toes perched carefully between the bottles and her fingers curled around the top rung.

“Here, take this,” the elf said, handing down a bottle. “It’s Orlesian. Good?”

“Just pick something you will enjoy,” Leliana said.

“It all tastes the same to me. Sort of … purple,” the elf said.

Leliana tipped her head back and sighed. “You are impossible. Yes, this is a very fine … oh!” She jumped when she spotted Dorian and Bull. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Hello!” said the elf. She pulled a second bottle from the top rack and hopped down, landing lightly on her feet, the bottle cradled in her left hand. The woman was older than she’d first appeared, probably in her mid-thirties. She had red hair that she wore loose over her shoulders and a jagged scar that ran down the right side of her face from her temple to her jaw. Something about that seemed familiar to Dorian.

The elf looked up at The Iron Bull. “Can I ask you something? Are you considered tall, for a Qunari?”

The Iron Bull grinned down at her. “Actually, yeah.” Dorian stamped down a flash of irritation when he saw how Bull’s eyes skipped up and down the elf’s frame.

“I have a friend who’s a Qunari. He’s quite tall by elf standards, or even shem standards, but you’d almost make him look tiny. He also doesn’t have horns. Does that mean anything in the Qun? I’ve always wondered.”

“We generally think it means someone is marked out for a special destiny,” Bull said. “Our new Arishok doesn’t have them.”

“Right!” said the elf. “That’s Sten! _Our_ Sten, I mean. I know there are other Stens. And I suppose he’s not Sten anymore. I still can’t get my head around calling him ‘the Arishok,’ can you, Leliana?”

The Iron Bull looked over at Leliana. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

“Dorian, Iron Bull, this is Naia Tabris—as I suspect you have guessed,” Leliana said wryly. “Naia, meet Dorian of house Pavus and The Iron Bull, also known as Hissrad of the Ben-Hassrath. So do not tell him anything you don’t want in a Qunari intelligence report.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Naia said. “It’s nice to meet you both.” She gave them a little salute with the wine bottle.

“Are both of those for you two? That’s quite an evening you have planned,” Dorian said.

“Oh, no, they’re for me. I’m not sure what Leliana’s drinking,” the elf said cheerfully.

“She’s not entirely joking. Grey Wardens have a terrifying tolerance for alcohol,” Leliana said.

“Well then. You’ll have to drop by and share a drink with me and my Chargers while you’re here,” The Iron Bull rumbled. “It’s been a long time since anyone could drink us under the table. Come find us in the tavern any time.”

Dorian _did not_ clench his teeth.

“I may take you up on that,” Naia said. “By the way, since you’re here in the wine cellar, Leliana says the good bottles are at the top.”

“Good by Southern standards, or _actually_ good?” Dorian asked.

“Import your own wines if ours are not to your taste, Dorian,” Leliana said archly. “Good night, gentlemen. Naia and I have some catching up to do.”

Dorian managed a slight bow as the two women swept past them and up the stairs.

The Iron Bull watched them go, then looked at him, almost bouncing with excitement. “Do you know who that was? The Hero of Ferelden! Shit, I can’t believe it!”

“Quite pretty for a Grey Warden, isn’t she?” Dorian asked, hiding most—but not all—of his irritation.

“She is,” The Iron Bull agreed. He looked down at Dorian and arched his eyebrow. “You think I’m not paying attention, don’t you?”

“Paying attention? To what?” Dorian said, deliberately obtuse.

“To you.” The Iron Bull smiled at him, slowly—a very different smile than the one he usually wore. “Don’t worry. I am paying you _very_ close attention.”

 

* * *

 

Cecily knew that it would not be long before all of Skyhold knew that she and Cullen were courting. But for now, it felt like just the two of them knew—a pleasant, warm little secret. She wanted to keep it that way just a little bit longer.

So she made sure to have an excuse to stop by his office that evening—an update from Dagna on her efforts to find a weakness in Samson’s armor. As it turned out, she didn’t need it; Cullen was alone at his bookshelf when she knocked at his office door.

He smiled at her. “I hoped you’d stop by.”

“Do you have some time? I thought we might play chess,” Cecily suggested.

“For you? Of course I have time. Give me a moment, I’ll retrieve my board from my room.”

“You know, I’ve never thought to ask where your room is,” Cecily said with some surprise. _Then again, I_ wouldn’t _have asked, because that would have put me one step closer to taking The Iron Bull’s advice._

Cullen made a vague gesture skyward. “I put a bed in my loft.”

Cecily’s mouth dropped open. “You sleep _upstairs_? Cullen, no wonder you’re overworked, you literally live in your office!”

Cullen looked startled by the suggestion that this was not a splendid idea. “It’s actually worked quite nicely. It has stopped me from falling asleep at my desk. Most nights,” he amended when she gave him a questioning look. “Besides, the repairs at Skyhold have gone well, but we welcome more and more visitors every day. We must make use of the space we have.”

Cecily decided not to press the point. “If you’re sure,” she said, trying and failing to keep the skepticism from her voice.

“Why, where would you have me sleep?” Cullen asked, his eyes crinkling in amusement. Then he went a bit pink. “Um.”

Cecily felt her own face heat in response. “Well. Chess?” she asked, flustered.

He nodded. “I’ll … be right back.”

*

“Vivienne and Blackwall absolutely hate each other, did you know that?” Cecily asked about halfway through the game.

Cullen frowned. “I don’t think I did, in fact. But it doesn’t surprise me. I can’t think of two people who have less in common. Blackwall is more subtle about it than Sera, but he doesn’t think much of the aristocracy, or the Game.”

“That’s only because he’s never had to play it. If he _had,_ he’d outright despise it,” Cecily said with a sigh. “I don’t think we ever talked about that ball, but I felt as if I spoke in nothing but riddles for the entire evening. It was exhausting.”

“You seemed to handle it quite well,” Cullen said. In fact, the ease with which she’d played the Game had been slightly disconcerting at the time.

Cecily shrugged. “I missed out on the more advanced training because I was in the Circle, I’m sure, and the Marcher nobility isn't quite as proficient in the Game, but our protocol tutors drilled the basic principles into us young. Hint at everything, reveal nothing, hope the other person slips and shows their hand, and always, always do everything with a polite smile on your face.”

Cullen wasn’t sure what possessed him to ask this next question, but somehow he found himself asking it anyway. “I have no title outside the Inquisition, you know. I hope that doesn’t—I mean, _does_ it bother you?”

Cecily blinked at him. “Why would that bother me?”

“Because your family—I mean, I doubt a farmer’s son from Honnleath was the suitor your parents envisioned for you before you went to the Circle.” A thought occurred to him. “Your parents … have they ever expressed a wish to find _you_ a husband?”

Cecily’s mouth dropped open in obvious horror. “Maker’s breath, that never occurred to me. I doubt it occurred to them either. Circle mages can’t marry, after all.”

“I suspect change will be coming to Thedas on that front,” Cullen said. “Not that we need to discuss that right now,” he added hurriedly.

She laughed and shook her head. “Cullen, I couldn’t care less about whether or not you have a title, inside or outside the Inquisition. And I never will care, whatever the future might hold for us.” She bit her lip, then. “Do you care about _my_ family? I know you don’t have much patience for nobility either.”

Cullen reached out and took her hand. “No. I don’t care at all,” he said sincerely. “Just … please don’t make me attend any more Orlesian balls unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Agreed, so long as you make me the same promise,” she said with a grin. “Now, was it your move or mine?”

“I can’t remember,” Cullen said. He looked over at her, watching the way her mouth curved when she smiled. “I suppose that means we’ll have to think of something else to do.”

He tugged gently at her hand. With a light laugh, Cecily rose and stepped close to him. His heart pounding, Cullen reached for her and pulled her down to sit in his lap.

“So you forfeit, then?” she asked as he leaned in to kiss her.

“Yes. Absolutely,” he murmured.

 

* * *

           

It was late in the evening when Naia and Leliana abandoned the rest of their wine and set out on a slightly tipsy tour of Skyhold. Leliana was singing a scandalous ballad about a baker’s son when a figure across the courtyard caught Naia’s eye—a slim woman in a ragged leather skirt, walking the gardens at Skyhold.

_No. You've got to be fucking kidding me._

“Um. Leliana?” Naia said, pulling her friend to a halt. “How drunk am I? Because I think I just saw Morrigan.”


	3. The Hero of Ferelden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warden is set loose on Skyhold. Blackwall is not as happy about this as Cecily anticipated.

* * *

 

Naia chose not to confront Morrigan that night—she definitely wanted to be sober for _that_ conversation. Leliana told her that the sorceress usually spent much of her day in the courtyard, so Naia headed back to the garden first thing the next morning and waited on a bench until her former ally returned.

The expression on Morrigan’s face when she saw Naia was extremely satisfying. She looked shocked, and then horrified, then shocked again.

Then her face slid back to her familiar, sardonic mask. “Well, well. The Hero of Ferelden, come to Skyhold! This _is_ a surprise. I had heard you were missing.”

“You know how it is. I’m always in the last place you look,” Naia said, standing. “Where’s the child, Morrigan?”

The apostate went tense. “What do you intend with him?”

 _It’s a boy._ “Nothing bad, except to know that he’s safe and probably not the next Archdemon,” Naia said sarcastically.

“His name is Kieran,” Morrigan replied. “He is here at Skyhold, and he is not what you fear. You may meet him, if you like.”

“I think I would, thanks,” Naia said, taking a bit of pleasure at the way Morrigan’s face blanched. “So. Leliana invited _me_. What brings _you_ to Skyhold?”

“It may surprise you, but I am here by invitation as well,” Morrigan said, crossing her arms. “Empress Celene sent me to lend my expertise to the Inquisition, and the Inquisitor accepted my help most graciously—much as you did, once.”

“Remind me to warn that poor woman what she’s in for,” Naia said wryly. “What kind of dark ritual are you planning to spring on _her_?”

Morrigan’s eyes flickered over Naia’s face; her expression was stiff, unreadable. Her next question surprised the Warden. “Why did you refuse me at Redcliffe?”

“The fact that Alistair didn’t want to sleep with you is hardly my fault,” Naia pointed out. “If you knew you needed him for your ritual you could have been nicer to him.”

Morrigan snorted. “Don’t pretend this was beyond your influence. Alistair would have jumped off the roof of the Chantry if you told him it was necessary. I had thought … you were my friend. I had thought you would trust me. That you would help me.”

“Your _friend_?” Naia asked incredulously. “You claimed to be my friend, certainly, as long as I was fetching you grimoires and killing your mother for you. But the moment I didn’t get you what you wanted—when I didn’t bully Alistair into bedding you—you swept off and left! The night before we had to fight the Archdemon!”

Morrigan blinked in surprise. “It had not occurred to me that you would be hurt by my leaving. I am sorry.” She looked to the side. “I did warn you that I might not always prove worthy of your friendship.”

“So you did, I suppose." That had been a strange conversation, even by conversations-with-Morrigan standards.

“I do not think I knew what it meant to _be_ a friend,” Morrigan confessed. “Perhaps I still do not. But I went to Zevran that night for your sake as well as mine. You may not believe this, but I am very glad you are alive.”

“So is Zev, as it happens,” Naia said dryly. “I should tell you that he may be coming to Skyhold.”

“Will he … will he want to see Kieran as well?” The idea clearly made Morrigan uncomfortable.

Naia shrugged. “I’ll let you work that out with him. And Morrigan? I don’t know what you intend with the Inquisition. But I’ll give you some advice. Eleven years ago you thought Leliana was just a sweet little Chantry sister. She’s not. She also takes this Inquisition thing very seriously. If you’re planning anything that might piss her off—ah, I recommend that you don’t.”

The Witch of the Wild’s bright eyes glowed. “Coldly said, but kindly meant, I think. It seems that part of you is yet my friend, Naia Tabris.”

“Well, you did save my life," Naia admitted.

“Mother?”

Naia’s breath caught in shock. A boy, roughly ten years old, was approaching them. He was dressed much like an Orlesian page, and was looking between the two of them with open curiously.

Morrigan extended her hand and drew him close. “Kieran, this is Naia Tabris, whom most call the Hero of Ferelden. Naia, this is … my son.”

“Hello, Kieran,” Naia said, since she had no idea what else to say. She studied the boy carefully. There were hints of elf in him—in the delicacy of his features, the large eyes, the slender frame—but they would only have been apparent to someone searching for them. His pale skin, dark hair and full mouth echoed his mother’s. Naia supposed that was a blessing.

“Mother said she knew you,” Kieran said. “I thought you would be taller. But you do look very brave. Mother said you were brave, and kind, and that you helped her.”

Morrigan coughed. “That’s enough of that, little man. I think it is time to return to your studies.”

Kieran looked at Naia. “Did _your_ mother make _you_ return to your studies all the time?” he asked plaintively.

Naia couldn’t help a smile. “In a way. My mother was a fighter, like me. I was lucky to have her to teach me.”

“Kieran,” Morrigan said, a gentle warning in her tone. The boy sighed and slipped away.

“That was not what I expected,” Naia said honestly, as soon as Kieran was safely inside and out of earshot.

Morrigan laughed. “From a child of mine, you mean? I suppose not. But _my_ son will not be raised in a marsh, bereft of human contact. His path will not be easy, but I have tried not to add to his burdens.” She looked over at Naia. “He is, in most respects, a perfectly normal boy.”

“What does he know?” Naia asked. “About his father, and the night he was, ah, made?”

“He knows nothing,” Morrigan admitted. When Naia glared at her, she turned up her hands and added, “Well, what am I to tell him, that his father was an assassin? That I persuaded him to drink Darkspawn blood and bed me because the woman he loved would die if he refused?”

“You could tell him—I don’t know. That he’s half elf, for a start?” Naia suggested. “And that his father was a man who lived a hard life, but kept room for humor and kindness in spite of it. Have you ever wondered if you’re anything like your father? What would you have wanted to know about him?”

“The man who fathered me slept with my mother. That is all I need know about him,” Morrigan said quietly. “If I had anything of his, I am certain it is long gone now. Mother would have seen to that.”

           

* * *

 

Leliana cleared her throat as soon as the morning war council meeting was assembled. "I had an interesting visitor last night. I have asked her to drop by our meeting when she can."

"Really, Leliana, you take too much pleasure in hints," Josephine scolded. "Who is this visitor?"

The spymaster smiled. It seemed like her usual cryptic expression, but there was a lightness to it that was not often there. "The Hero of Ferelden."

"You found her!" Cecily said, delighted.

"Or she found me." Leliana laughed softly. "It is hard to tell with Naia."

Sure enough, just as they were debating what to do with a treacherous Marquise, a knock came at the war council door. Leliana excused herself and stepped outside for a moment. With the door open a crack, they could hear her murmured conversation. “Well?” the spymaster asked.

“I think being sober for that might have been a bad choice,” a Ferelden accent replied. “So, is this the mighty Inquisition’s strategy room?”

“It is indeed. Come, meet our council.” Leliana pushed open the door; they all looked back at the map and tried to pretend they hadn’t been eavesdropping.

Leliana returned to the room with a red-haired elf at her side. “Josie, Cullen, Cecily. This is Naia Tabris.”

Josephine, of course, was the first to reply. “Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition. It is a tremendous honor.”

“Likewise, Ambassador,” Naia said with a friendly smile.

“Allow me to present Lady Cecily Trevelyan, our Inquisitor, and Commander Cullen Rutherford,” Josephine added, gesturing to each of them in turn.

Recognition flared in her eyes, but all Naia said was, “Hello.”

“I am told we met at Kinloch Hold,” Cullen said after a slightly uncomfortable pause. “I am afraid I do not remember it well. But I owe you a great debt for what you did there, for saving the mages and Templars alike.”

“You look very well, Commander,” the elf said, relief clear on her face. “I’m glad to see you again.”

Cecily walked over and extended her hand—a gesture she suspected Naia would like better than a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure,” she said sincerely.

Naia gripped Cecily's hand, her palms and fingers rough with calluses. “The pleasure is mine, Inquisitor. I can’t thank you enough for what you did at Adamant.”

For a moment Cecily held out a slim little hope that Naia had brought them a way to kill Corypheus. But it seemed that his existence in that prison had been kept a secret even within the Wardens, and Naia was candid about the fact that she was, as she put it, “not exactly Weisshaupt’s favorite Hero of Ferelden.” She told them what she knew about the Calling, about red lyrium and the Blight and archdemons, but little of it was new—except for the rather alarming bit about a talking Darkspawn named The Architect.

When Cecily and the others left the meeting, Skyhold was already abuzz about the Hero of Ferelden’s visit. By late afternoon, the excitement was at such a pitch that Josephine decided to throw an impromptu celebration for the Inquisition’s people in honor of their guest.

So much chatter and attention from so many strangers would have sent Cecily running for the nearest locked room, but Naia handled it with aplomb. Barely an hour into the party she seemed to know half the Inquisition by name and was swinging around a bonfire with Krem, having picked up the steps to a Tevinter reel with less than five minutes of instruction. Cecily couldn’t help feeling a bit envious of the Warden’s ease with people. She remembered what Cassandra had told her, that the elf had been their first choice to lead the Inquisition. She wasn’t entirely certain what to do with that thought, so she spent the party chatting with her friends—and sneaking a quick kiss with Cullen behind the tavern.

It was another hour after that before it occurred to her that she had not yet seen Blackwall.

“Dunno,” said Sera, when Cecily asked her if she knew where he was. “But he should be here, yeah? I mean, he’s all ‘ooh, Wardens, important,’ and that one’s the most important one there is, right?” She frowned. “It’s weird that he’s not here, innit.”

“It is. I’m going to go find him,” Cecily said.

Eventually Cecily did find Blackwall—alone in the barn, staring at a wooden carving of a griffon. “Evening, Inquisitor,” he said when she approached.

 _Perhaps he’s just not one for parties._ “Here you are. So did you meet her? The Hero of Ferelden?” Cecily asked. “Come on, I’ll introduce you if you haven’t.”

She thought Blackwall would be delighted—if he took such pleasure in finding Grey Warden banners and swords, how could he not be thrilled that the most famous living Warden was in Skyhold? But his expression when he looked over at her was not at all what she expected. Blackwall’s eyes were rimmed with red and his face looked haggard; he seemed ten years older than he had yesterday.

“Want a drink?” he asked abruptly. “I’ve a hankering for company.”

“Certainly,” Cecily said, puzzled. “There is a party outside, you know. You should join us.”

But Blackwall was already pouring whiskey into two whittled wooden cups.

This was not Blackwell’s first drink of the evening, Cecily realized; his movements were unsteady and his eyes a bit unfocused. He handed her the cup and launched into a strange story about a dog that he had seen some other children kill, years ago.

“And I just shut the door,” he finished. “I might as well have tied the noose around his neck myself.”

“You were only a child,” Cecily said, baffled.  _What is this about?_

“That’s no excuse,” he replied roughly.

Cecily felt profoundly uncomfortable—Blackwall was clearly not well, and she did not know how to help him, or if she even could. The agitated, distracted man in front of her seemed nothing like the gentle warrior who joked with Sera and took such pride in his Wardens.

“Do you remember what that demon said in the Fade?” he asked her suddenly.

“That creature said a lot of things,” she said with an attempt at bravado. The truth was, the demon’s words about her had run through her mind for weeks after Adamant. She shook off that memory and tried to remember exactly what it had claimed about Blackwall—something about how he was not like the other Grey Wardens? “But they were things that we _feared_ were true, not things that were _actually_ true,” she added, hoping that would be reassuring.

“I know that,” he growled. “No one could hear what it said to you and not realize that thing was full of lies.” He met her eyes with such intensity that Cecily felt half paralyzed. “But was it right about what you fear, Inquisitor? Failing the people you lead? Hurting the people who trust you? Are those the things that you fear the most?”

Cecily felt a stab of guilt; it was probably not reassuring to hear that your Inquisitor thought she might not be up to the task. “Yes,” she said honestly, because there was really no other response.

“Then you deserve our loyalty,” he said. “We’re lucky there are people like you in the world.”

For some reason, those words seemed to make him even more miserable. “There’s always some dog out there. Some fucking mongrel who doesn’t know how to stay away.”

Cecily sipped her own whiskey as he drained his, wishing she knew what to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's version of Morrigan's ritual departs from canon. Hopefully what happened is clear from context in this chapter, but the full story is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3108065/chapters/6733673


	4. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall's secret comes out. So does Fiona's. (Major spoilers for Dragon Age: The Calling, and for Blackwall's companion quest.)

* * *

 

Leliana was late for the morning war council meeting. Cecily assumed it was because of her friend’s visit—or perhaps because they had all been in a _very_ celebratory mood the night before—until the spymaster pushed open the door, her face hard and serious.

“Blackwall is gone,” she said without preamble.

Josephine let out a soft, dismayed little gasp.

“He was acting very strangely last night,” Cecily said. “Perhaps he just went to clear his head? I’m sure he’s planning to come back.”

Leliana cut her off by handing her a piece of paper. “I do not think so. My people tell me he left early in the morning and took most of his gear. He left this for you.”

A sick, gnawing feeling clawed at Cecily’s stomach as she unfolded the letter. 

> _Inquisitor,_
> 
> _You’ve been a friend and an inspiration. You’ve given me the wisdom to know right from wrong and, more importantly, the courage to uphold the former._
> 
> _It’s been my honor to serve you._

Curiously, the note was unsigned. Cecily handed the paper to Josephine, who read it with wide, stunned eyes, then passed it on to Cullen.

“What in the Maker’s name is this about?” Cullen asked.

“The only thing we found in his quarters was a notice about the execution of a man named Cyril Mornay, who helped assassinate one of Celene’s generals four years ago.” Leliana scowled. “The notice had been taken from one of my reports. I will have to have a discussion with my people about who is allowed to carry our intelligence briefings.”

“A family member, perhaps?” Cecily guessed. “Or a friend? When is the execution?”

“In three days, in Val Royeaux.”

“Then … I will go there as well,” Cecily said. “If he is in trouble, I would like to help him, if we can.”

She took the letter back from Cullen and stared at it unhappily. She and the Warden were not close, she knew; he had yet to call her anything other than “Herald” or “Inquisitor” or “my Lady,” and they had never been able to joke with one another as he did with Varric or Sera. But she had thought he respected her. No, she _knew_ that he respected her; he would not have stayed with the Inquisition otherwise. _If he was in trouble, why could he not tell us—tell me?_

Cullen nodded. “I’ll accompany you. We can be ready within the hour.”

 

* * *

 

Naia’s meeting with Grand Enchanter Fiona did not go well.

Oh, the woman was forthcoming, to a point. She was straightforward about the events that had preceded the discovery that she no longer carried the Taint—or, at least, everything she said agreed with the Warden records. But Naia had never been good at concealing irritation.

“I see. So you know nothing. As I’d heard.” Naia pushed her chair back. “Thank you for your time, I suppose.”

“It is not uncommon, you know,” Fiona said, her voice so sympathetic that it verged on condescending. “To feel … upset with me, and angry that there seems to be little chance of this happening for you. Many have wished to avoid the fate the Calling will bring.”

Naia just stared at her. Then she laughed sharply. “You think that’s why I’m angry—that I’m _jealous_?” She blew her breath out and shook her head. “You have no idea, do you?”

“I am afraid not,” the Grand Enchanter said dryly. “I truly see no reason why you would be this hostile. We have never met. I have done nothing to you.”

“No, but you did plenty to Alistair,” Naia told her coldly.

Fiona went pale.

“He helped you, helped your rebellion, gave you shelter, and you repaid him by inviting a bunch of Tevinters to take over Redcliffe and run off their Arl?” Naia crossed her arms; it was the only way she thought she could prevent her hands from strangling the woman. “Explain that to me. Please.”

“I did what I had to do to save my people,” Fiona said weakly. “We were losing the war, and badly. It seemed the only way. I know it must seem a poor excuse, but it was never my intention to cause your King problems.”

“Well, you did,” Naia snapped. “And not just political problems, either. Alistair is a trusting man, a kind one. Do you know how hard it’s been for him to remain that way, wearing that damned crown? He felt sorry for you, saw that mages had been given a raw deal. He held out his hand and you spat in his face.”

Fiona said nothing. Naia gritted her teeth. “Look, I don’t care about a cure for myself. I was headed for a hangman’s noose when Duncan recruited me. Every day I’ve spent with the Taint has been a day I wouldn’t have had without it. But I need it for Alistair, because he needs an heir. So if you feel any guilt at all about the shitstorm you brought down on him, and you’re holding back something that could help, now is the time to tell me.”

Fiona’s shoulder slumped. “No. There is nothing,” she said hollowly, placing her elbows on the table and toying nervously with her hands. “I knew his father. For Maric’s sake—for Alistair’s—I would do anything. Please believe that if I could help you, I would.”

Naia felt her anger cooling. “Then, thank you. Goodbye.”

She stood to go, but suddenly, Fiona put out her hand. “Wait.”

Naia looked at her. The Grand Enchanter was staring at the table, her face drawn and unhappy. “I told you all I know. But I have not told you all that happened. I discovered that I had been purged of the Taint when I found myself pregnant.”

She struggled with the next part. “The child … was Maric’s. It was a boy. I gave him to Maric, asked him to raise the child as a human, with no knowledge of me, and far from court intrigue.” Fiona looked up then, and watched her, waiting.

Naia’s legs went weak. “Maker’s fucking _balls_ ,” she gasped, collapsing back into her chair. “You’re Alistair’s _mother?_ ” For a moment she wondered if the mage was lying—but she was suddenly certain that it was the truth. What could Fiona possibly gain from claiming that, if it were a lie?

The Grand Enchanter nodded. “Please do not tell him.”

“You must be joking,” Naia said incredulously. “He’s dreamed for years of having family. I’m not going to find out that his mother is still alive and keep it a secret from him!”

"It will bring him no joy, after Redcliffe,” Fiona warned.

Naia threw her hands up. “Redcliffe’s on your head, not mine. I’m not hiding this from him just because you got in bed with Tevinter.”

For a minute Fiona looked so miserable that Naia almost relented—but she knew herself. She could not keep such a thing from Alistair even if she’d wanted to. “Why did you tell me, if you didn’t want him to know?”

Fiona chuckled bitterly. “Well, now I wish I had not. But … I suppose I have wanted to tell _someone_ for a very long time. You know Alistair. You are clearly a loyal friend. And I have always wondered—why did you give him the crown? His father never wanted it. It brought Maric nothing but grief.”

“Because Alistair told me to. Because he knew, and I knew, that he was the only one who could do what needed to be done,” Naia said. “He has been a good king. But there are many times when I wish, for his sake, that someone else was on that throne.” She snorted softly. “If only Anora had been a bit less of a viper.”

The former Warden sighed. “It seems the fate of the Theirins, to take on burdens because there is no one else to do so.” She fell silent. “I would like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

Naia nodded and stood to go. She was halfway to the door when an idea occurred to her—a compromise, of sorts.

“You have six months,” she said abruptly, turning her head back a bit. “Write him a letter, visit him in Denerim—handle it however you like, but you have six months to tell Alistair you’re his mother, and whatever else you think he should know. When the six months are up, I tell him. He will learn the truth, but you may choose how he finds out.”

"Thank you, I suppose,” Fiona whispered behind her. “I can see that you mean to be kind.”

 

* * *

 

Leliana’s people made an effort to trace Blackwall in Val Royeaux, but on the morning of the execution they had yet to find him. They had no choice but to try and spot him at the hanging. Cecily and Cullen found themselves packed into a throng of angry Orlesians, all anticipating Mornay’s death. Lord Callier had been popular, and his family had apparently been victims as well; this was not a crime that had been forgotten.

Cecily was not at all surprised when Blackwall stepped onto the gallows. Anxiously, she waited for him to reveal his purpose. Did he have evidence that could clear the man—or perhaps he meant to conscript Mornay for the Wardens?

Blackwall looked onto the crowd and caught Cecily’s eye. He flinched visibly when he saw her, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “This man is innocent of the crimes set before him.”

Not even Varric could have written what quiet, loyal Blackwall said next. “He was following orders— _my_ orders. I am Thom Rainier.”

“He’s lying,” Cecily gasped, clutching at Cullen’s arm. “Cullen, why would he—we have to tell them he’s lying! There must be another way to save Mornay, if that’s what he wants!”

But then Mornay looked up at Blackwall, and Cecily saw the expression in the condemned man's eyes, and she knew. _Maker’s breath. He's telling the truth._


	5. Trust

* * *

 

“The Inquisitor would like to speak with this man. I am to secure the area for her. You may leave us,” the Commander said. He wondered if the prison guards would argue with him—technically, he did not have much authority to order Val Royeaux soldiers to leave their post—but the guards responded to his tone, bowed, and departed.

Cullen was left alone with Captain Thom Rainier.

“Is the Inquisitor truly coming? Or did you want a word with me yourself?” Rainier asked as Cullen examined the cells, kicking apparently empty piles of hay to check for assassins.

“She is coming,” Cullen said stiffly. “For some reason, she feels you owe her an explanation. Or, perhaps, that she owes _you_ a chance to explain yourself.” He kept his eyes away from Rainier’s cell; he didn’t think he could look at the man right now.

“She’s going to ask for your advice about me,” Rainier said, his voice low.

“I imagine we will discuss your fate at the war council, yes,” Cullen replied as he stepped out of the last empty cell.

“I mean, she’s going to ask _you._ You know what it means to have the loyalty of the people you lead into battle, just as she does. You both know exactly why what I did was so monstrous.” The false Warden turned towards the wall of his cell, his movements slow, shaky. “When she asks, tell her to leave me here. Tell her I’ve earned this fate, that the Inquisition is better off without me. You know it’s the truth.”

“If that’s what you’d prefer, you can tell her that yourself,” Cullen said. “I haven’t decided what I’d prefer.”

Rainier turned to him, his lip curled. “Don’t try to pretend I don’t disgust you, Commander. You’d be glad to see my head in that hangman’s noose.”

Cullen shook his head. “What you did to the Calliers, to your men, does disgust me. If that was all I knew of you I suppose I would not be sorry to see you hang. But I’ve also seen you fight for us, and own up to your past when you could have escaped it. I am not being dishonest, Rainier. I truly do not know what I will tell the Inquisitor when she asks what I think should be done with you.”

Rainier snorted. “Then you’re a damned fool.”

“You can imagine how much I value your opinion at the moment, I’m sure,” Cullen said.

Soft footsteps descended the stairs to the cells. “Commander?”

“It is secure, Inquisitor,” Cullen replied. He spared one last glare for Rainier—and allowed himself one quick press of his hand against Cecily’s shoulder before he moved to the stairs. The Inquisitor seemed calm, composed, but Cullen could see the lines of tension around her mouth, the way her shoulders were set just a bit too high.

He was not sure what to think of Rainier’s crimes, or his attempted atonement as Blackwall. But Cecily had trusted their false Warden, and right now, he could have killed the man himself for shattering that.

 

* * *

 

The conversation with Thom Rainier was baffling, and horrifying, and deeply sad. He called himself a murderer, a monster; he seemed truly sickened by his actions. But he also said that it had been just one mistake—a mistake, as if taking gold in recompense for murder were the same as taking a wrong turn on the road to Denerim—and claimed that the same crime during a war would have won a medal. By the time Cecily left the jail, she felt utterly wrung out, like a rag that had been twisted and twisted until it was threadbare and torn.

Cullen was waiting for her. For a moment Cecily wanted to wrap her arms around him, to take comfort in being held, but what they had still felt too new. She could not break down on him every time she faced a hard choice just because they had shared a few kisses. Here, she had to be the Inquisitor, and he had to be the Commander.

“Thank you, Commander,” she said briskly. “I think we are done here.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “As you say, Inquisitor,” he said, a bit uncertainly. “I have a report on Thom Rainier should you wish to see it.”

Cecily took the sheaf of papers, grateful for something to occupy her hands; they were still shaking. “I’ll read it later. Is there anything I should know right away? Anything in this that contradicts what we heard?”

Cullen shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It is as bad as he described.”

“Maker,” Cecily whispered, her Inquisitor poise deserting her. “What he did— _children,_ Cullen. And he let some of his men be punished while he got away. All for coin.”

Cullen’s face was hard. “He betrayed the men under his command, and betrayed our trust. I despise him for it.”

“Yet today he sacrificed his freedom to save Mornay’s life, when he could easily have continued the lie,” Cecily said, shaking her head.

“What he did took courage, I’ll give him that,” Cullen agreed. “And he joined the Inquisition, shed blood for our cause. I can see why you might feel … that you owe him, perhaps. Or that you are responsible for him.”

Cecily’s mouth twitched in a bitter smile. “Indeed. I do feel responsible for Blackwall. But am I responsible for Thom Rainier?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Cullen asked with a sigh. “We have resources. If you wish him fetched back to the Inquisition to face your judgment, it may be possible. We can discuss our options back at Skyhold.”

She took a deep breath and loosened her grip on the report; her fingers were starting to ache from clutching it so tightly. “Yes. I suppose we will have time, won’t we? Orlais will want to see Thom Rainier tried and killed with as much spectacle as possible.” She could not suppress a shiver.

 

* * *

 

The meeting at the war council stretched over several long hours, well into the evening. Josephine’s sadness tore at Cecily’s heart, but she was still their practical Ambassador, and she offered several options for persuading Celene to release Rainier to them. Cullen, ever the military man, suggested an ambush when he was transported. Leliana knew criminals in Val Royeaux who could liberate Rainier with no stain on the Inquisition’s reputation, although she admitted that it would probably be best if Cecily and the others knew no more.

All of these options seemed bad. And none of them were certain about whether an option should be exercised at all. The decision would fall to the Inquisitor.

With that determined, Cecily called an end to the meeting. She quietly assured Cullen that she was well and simply needed time alone to think, then set out for a walk around Skyhold.

Somehow, she found herself walking past the barn, past the place where the man she’d known as Blackwall had made his home. She could see the griffon he’d carved still sitting on his table—and a small bundle of wilted flowers that she suspected he had intended for Josephine.

And suddenly Cecily found herself crying for the first time since Haven. At first, it was a quiet little cry, but then she thought of the way Josephine had looked in the war room, thought about what she was going to tell Sera, and she began sobbing, so painfully that she almost could not walk. She stumbled to the bench outside the stables, buried her face in her hands, and did not bother to try and stop the tears.

She prayed that no one would happen upon her in this state, but the Maker was not that kind. After a few moments, soft footsteps sounded in the gravel nearby. “This is a stupid question. But are you all right?”

 _Oh, splendid. If there had to be a witness, of course it's the Hero of bloody Ferelden._  

Cecily pulled her face out of her hands and gulped down a breath. “I … am not. There is a hard choice to be made, and I … You must think me very weak.”

“Hardly,” the Warden said, tilting her head sympathetically. “I think a good cry is healthy. Just ask Leliana, I spent a good chunk of the Blight sobbing on her shoulder.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Warden-Commander,” Cecily said, searching the pockets of her riding coat for a handkerchief, or something resembling one. Happily, she found one—it was slightly crumpled, but clean.

“Just Naia’s fine,” the elf said as Cecily wiped her eyes. “Do you want me to find someone for you—a friend, I mean?”

Cecily took another shaky breath. “Warden-Commander—Naia, do the Wardens ever recruit criminals?”

“Oh yes,” the Warden said immediately. “A lot of recruits die from the Joining. People don’t risk it unless they’re really devoted or they have no other options. We conscript quite a few criminals, if they’re skilled fighters and they care enough to change their path. We like to see it as a second chance.”

Cecily looked up at Naia, and suddenly, the entire story came spilling out.

“I have no idea what to do,” she confessed when she finished. She glanced at Naia, who had taken a seat beside her during her long tale. “He fought by our side, and he’s saved the lives of almost everyone in the Inquisition at one point or another. If he hadn’t been at Adamant I’m not sure how things would have ended. But what he did was …”

“Unforgiveable,” Naia finished grimly, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. “He killed for gold he didn't need, used the people who trusted him to do it, and then he ran away while some of them were punished for it. This is awful. I’m so sorry, Inquisitor.”

Hearing someone else admit that this whole situation was awful felt comforting, somehow. “I know what I would _like_ to do,” Cecily said softly. “Whatever he was before, he has been a loyal ally, a key member of our forces. Even now, if we were in battle together I would still trust him with my life. Am I naïve?”

“I fell in love with my own assassin. I’m probably the wrong person to ask,” Naia said wryly. “But no. I don’t think you are.” She paused. “I could conscript him for the Wardens,” she offered.

Cecily was bitterly tempted. “No, I could not ask that of you. The Empress would be furious, and the Warden presence in Orlais is still uneasy after Adamant.” She sighed. “Our best option seems to be using Leliana’s underworld contacts to free him, leaving the Inquisition’s reputation out of it, but I’m not sure I want to trust something so delicate to criminals.”

Naia’s face went still; her attention had been caught by something behind Cecily. Then, slowly, she arched an eyebrow. “I think I may have an idea, Inquisitor.”

Cecily turned, following the Warden’s gaze. A blond elven man with warm olive skin and a tattoo on his face was walking towards them; he beamed as soon as he met Naia’s eyes. Naia rose and crossed the courtyard, moving at something close to a run. The man caught her by the waist and gave her a warm, affectionate kiss. Then Naia tugged at his arm and pulled him over to the bench.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan, meet Zevran Arainai,” she said.

Zevran swept her an elaborate bow. “My Lady Inquisitor. It is truly a pleasure. I have heard many stories of your bravery, but I see the tales did not do justice to your beauty.” He raised his eyes to hers and gave her a slight smile.

Cecily hoped the darkness was hiding her blush. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Serrah Arainai. You are very welcome at Skyhold.”

Naia elbowed Zevran in the ribs as he straightened. “Stop flirting with the Inquisitor, Zev. She’s got a job for us.”


	6. Jailbreak

* * *

 

He was not sure how long he had been in this cell. A week, perhaps. That was only a guess. He did not care, exactly. But it felt strange, not knowing what day it was.

Thom Rainier lay in the dark and waited to die.

Sleep came fitfully, and at strange times; a few hours at night, a few hours while pale daylight seeped down the stairs. He was fairly certain it was night when he heard the _thump_ on the floor above him. They were dragging in another prisoner, he suspected; perhaps one who had been brought in unconscious.

Then, voices.

“Have I told you how much I have missed committing burglary with you, my Dark Wolf?” asked a soft Antivan accent.

“Not today, no,” a female voice replied. “That should be all of the guards. Come on, he’s downstairs.”

Rainier sat up as two figures slipped into the gloom of the small jail—elves, from their slender frames. Both were dressed in soft grey, with dark scarves wound around their faces and hair. “Will you, or shall I?” asked the female voice.

“You should, of course,” the male elf said, gesturing towards Rainier’s cell. “You know how I like to watch.”

“If you’re here to kill me, just get it over with,” Rainier said. He had expected this; there were many in Orlais who would not want these events dragged up again if it could be helped. Deliberately, he stood and stepped to the door of his cell. He curled his hands around the bars and leaned forward, letting the frigid metal dig into his limbs and chest and forehead. It would be easy for the elf to slide a dagger between his ribs.

“We are not. You may want to step back, I’m about to open that door,” the woman said. She dropped to her right knee and slid a pair of lockpicks out of her sleeve. With practiced efficiency, she slipped them into the lock and began her work.

“These things you do with your fingers, my dear. They are like poetry,” the male elf said as she twisted the lockpicks.

“I do love it when you needlessly flatter me,” she replied.

“Are you here to kidnap me? Or will you just be having sex on the floor in front of my cell?” Rainier growled.

“Who says we cannot do both, my hirsute friend?” the man said. 

A moment later the lock tumbled open; the woman stood and slid the picks back into her sleeve. Out of pure instinct, Rainier took two quick steps back.

“We mean you no harm,” the woman said, opening the cell door. “We’re here on behalf of the Inquisition.” When Rainier did not move, she added, “Please come with us. You’re rather large and I don’t want to dose you with knockout powder and carry you.”

"So the Inquisitor has allied herself with criminals on my account,” he said. A sour taste flooded his mouth; he almost gagged. “How many did you kill to reach me?”

"Are we certain the Inquisitor wants this man back?” the Antivan said doubtfully. “He is a rather grim fellow.”

“We didn’t kill anyone. The guards will wake with headaches tomorrow, but there’s no new blood on your hands for this. Andraste’s ass, man,” the woman said, crossing her arms and giving her fingers a few impatient taps. “Are you really going to make us carry you?”

Rainier sighed. “Very well. Lead on.”

True to their word, the elves handled him gently. They tossed a cloak over his shoulders to provide at least some cover against being easily recognized, then swept him through several back alleys in Val Royeaux. The two moved so fast that there were moments when Rainier almost stumbled, unable to keep up after so much inactivity. They saw, and slowed their pace. Eventually they reached the outskirts of the city, where three horses awaited them. The elves tied his hands to his saddle and tethered his horse to the man’s mount, but were otherwise courteous.

An hour later, they were far enough outside the city that Rainier felt he could speak. “Who are you? What did the Inquisition promise you in recompense for this?”

The elves looked at each other; the woman shrugged and stripped her scarf from her face.

Rainier found himself staring directly at the Hero of Ferelden.

“I’m Naia,” she said unnecessarily. “And this is Zevran.” The male elf unwound his scarf and gave Rainier an amused little nod.

“The Inquisition sent _you_?” he asked, looking between her and her companion, feeling as if the world were spinning around him.

Naia nodded. “Actually, we volunteered. The Wardens owed the Inquisition one after Adamant—well, a lot more than one, more like one hundred. And the Inquisitor said you helped talk the survivors down, so I figured we owed you one too. Besides, we _really_ like breaking into places.”

“So we do,” Zevran agreed cheerfully.

Rainier was utterly at a loss for what to say. What came out was, “Maker’s balls. I need a drink.”

Naia laughed, not unkindly. “I can’t promise that the Inquisition has whiskey rations for prisoners, but I’ll see what we can do.”

 

* * *

 

Cecily never enjoyed sitting in judgment at Skyhold—with the possible exception of her meeting with the Avaar goat-thrower—but she hoped she would never face a worse sight than this. Two Inquisition guards were half-guiding, half-dragging Thom Rainier towards the Inquisition’s throne.

Josephine’s voice only wobbled a little as she presented the man for judgment. Cecily breathed deeply through her nose and ran her fingers down the arms of the chair, not bothering to conceal how much this distressed her. She had cleared the audience chamber of all but those she trusted with this secret; the people here would not fault her for a few cracks in her composure.

Rainier looked even worse than Cecily felt. His hair and beard were matted, his clothing rumpled and stained, his eyes bloodshot and exhausted; the shackles on his hands dragged his shoulders down in a painful slump. “You fought by my side against some of the worst enemies we have faced. I do not enjoy seeing you like this,” Cecily said honestly.

“Another thing to regret.” His voice was rough. “You took me from jail under cover of night—took a murderer from the justice that awaited him. You’re a criminal now, the same as me.”

Cecily felt her hands tighten on the arms of her throne. “I beg your pardon, _Captain Rainier_?” she said icily. “Please, do lecture me on my criminal activities. Perhaps you’ve been keeping a list of the people _I’ve_ killed for money?” She regretted that as soon as she said it—but only a little.

The warrior grimaced and looked away. “Pronounce your judgment. You went to enough trouble to claim it. There is nothing I could say in my own defense.”

Cecily closed her eyes and took a long, silent breath through her nose. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Blackwall. I sentence you to resume your duties with the Inquisition, until such time as I release you. When your service to the Inquisition is concluded, you will report to Warden-Commander Nathaniel Howe in Amaranthine to undertake the Joining.”

Rainier’s eyes widened. “As you command.”

“Many die from the Joining, and I have it on good authority that a Warden’s life is not an easy one,” Cecily told him seriously. “This is no escape. It is simply an opportunity to _be_ the man you claimed, or someone like him.” She studied his face quietly—so familiar and yet so strange. “I am also told that the Wardens often extend second chances. It seems a worthy example for the Inquisition to emulate.”

Thom Rainier stood there, stunned. Then, slowly, he bowed, as respectful and grateful a gesture as a man in shackles could have possibly made. “You have my sword, my Lady, for however long you need it. And when you do not, I swear to you that I will carry out your judgment. If I die, it will be no less than I deserve. And if I live … I’ll make it count.”

“The Inquisition needs you, serrah. You are free to go and resume your work. Unshackle him,” Cecily told the guards.

As the cuffs were unlocked from his wrists, Rainier—Blackwall— _Maker, what are we supposed to call him now?_ —turned his face to Josephine. She closed her eyes and inclined her head, only a touch, but Cecily could sense forgiveness in the gesture.

_If Josie can forgive him, surely the rest of us can as well?_

 

* * *

 

He could feel so many pairs of eyes on him as the shackles were removed. He wondered if he ought to say something, but he had said the only words he could when he’d thanked the Inquisitor for her choice. He had not known what this serious, softhearted woman would do with him. Perhaps he should have guessed. Sending him to the Wardens was exactly the kind of poetic sentence she seemed to prefer.

He turned away from the throne and began his walk down the length of Skyhold’s central chamber, standing straight but not meeting anyone’s gaze. His muscles were cold and stiff; he rubbed his wrists, trying to shake off the memory of the shackles around them.

He was not sure how he should think of himself. _Rainier,_ he knew, was his rightful name. But it was hard to think of himself by that name in Skyhold, in a place where people had only known him as _Blackwall_.

Sister Leliana was waiting for him in the stables. She avoided the issue entirely by simply saying, “You.”

“Can I help you, Sister?” Blackwall-Rainier asked. His weariness had seeped so deep into his bones that he wondered if he might collapse from the sheer effort of talking to this terrifying woman.

“I blame myself, in a way,” the spymaster said, looking him up and down, taking his measure. “I do have a blind spot when it comes to the Wardens. I will not make such a mistake again.”

“Is that your way of saying you’ll be watching me, Sister?” he asked, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“It is,” she said. There was a remarkable amount of menace in those two small words.

“I would have expected no less,” he admitted. “And I suspect you’ll have company.” He could not imagine what Cassandra would say to him, or Varric, or Sera, or Josephine. _They will hate me now. But I gave them that right._

For one bitter, ungrateful moment, he almost wished for his cell in Val Royeaux. Death, he saw, might have been the easier path.

 

* * *

 

It was another long meeting of the war council.

Despite their best efforts, the news that Blackwall was not truly Blackwall had already reached some of the people who had given the Inquisition coin and men based on his Warden treaties. Cullen argued vigorously for keeping what they’d taken—“We’re allied with the Wardens _now,_ aren’t we?”—while Josephine urged Cecily to smooth ruffled feathers by returning everything and offering apologies. Leliana was silent, as she usually was when she could see both sides of the argument.

“We’ll return the coin and men,” Cecily said finally. “Maker willing, that will be the end of this mess. I suggest we all get some sleep. It has been an extremely trying day.” Her tone was clipped, businesslike, almost brusque, and she was the first one to exit the war council room after everyone nodded their acceptance of her decision.

Cullen almost had to run to catch her. “Inquisitor, a moment, if I may,” he said, trying to maintain some sort of professionalism as Leliana and Josephine slipped by them.

She paused and turned to him. “Commander?”

He waited until Josephine and Leliana had left the hallway. “Are you all right?”

She stood a bit straighter, her posture almost defensive, then her shoulder slumped. “No, not entirely,” she admitted. She rubbed a hand behind her neck, shaking some of her hair loose from its pins.

“This has been hard on you.” Cullen reached out to brush her hair behind her ear, but then he hesitated and pulled his hand back. “I do not mean to pry, but … you have been distant these past few days. Are you, I mean, do you still want …?” He could not bring himself to ask the rest of that question.

Cecily crossed her arms nervously. “I … I know. It’s just—I don’t want to saddle you with my burdens simply because we are courting.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “But—oh, Maker, Cullen, I’m sorry! Of course I still want this. I just haven’t been very good at showing it of late. There are times when I need to be the Inquisitor, not just Cecily, and I know you’d rather not have everyone in Skyhold talking about us so I try to be careful.”

“You’re allowed to share your burdens. And there’s no one else here,” Cullen said softly. “If you like, I don’t have to be the Commander right now. I’m just Cullen.”

Cecily closed her eyes. “I would like that very much.” She stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his shoulder, apparently not bothered by the armor. Cullen held her tight, rubbing her back gently, trying to ease the tension in her frame.

“I still don’t know if I did the right thing,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he said. “In this case, there might have been more than one right thing to do. For what it’s worth, I think you did _a_ right thing.”

They stood like that for a long time. Then Cullen got up his courage and said, “I think things might be easier if … if the others knew. I will admit I don’t like the thought of you—of us—being the subject of barracks gossip, but it would be far worse if there were nothing to gossip about.” He kissed her hair. “And if they know, it will finally stop Dorian from stepping on my foot and giving me a meaningful look every time you draw near. I was not entirely subtle about my feelings for you, apparently.”

Cecily laughed. “Neither was I. Remind me to tell you about the advice The Iron Bull gave me.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Cullen groaned.

She tilted her face up, her cheeks flushing. “Well, actually, I’d hope you might find it appealing. But I’ll need a few drinks before I can repeat it.”


	7. Gossip

* * *

 

They decided to begin by telling Josephine and Leliana, the two who were arguably most affected by their changed relationship. The spymaster and the Ambassador exchanged glances, then Leliana admitted, “We knew.”

“And we are very pleased for you,” Josephine added. “Although there will be some devastated young Orlesian ladies.”

“I am glad you told us,” Leliana said. “Now we can stop pretending to believe your ridiculous excuses about ‘Inquisition emergencies.’” She gave them both a scolding look, but there was a great deal of affection in it.

Cecily and Cullen blushed in unison.

The next person Cecily wanted to tell was Dorian, whom Cullen predicted would be “insufferably smug” about the news. She found him in the garden reading a heavy Tevinter tome. She had tried to think of a way to bring up the topic naturally, but she’d failed, so she simply sat down on the bench next to him and opened with, “About two weeks ago Cullen and I kissed. We’ve been courting ever since.”

Dorian immediately set his book down and gave her a very satisfied smile. “Well. I rather thought as much.”

Cecily blinked. “You did?” _Maker’s breath, does_ everyone _already know?_

“It was just a suspicion, mind you. But the looks you were giving each other seemed to go from ‘puppy-eyed longing’ to ‘I need to get you alone so I can remove your clothes with my teeth.’” He laughed at her expression. “Which I think is adorable, by the way! Now, tell me,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “ _Exactly_ when did you first kiss? I have five sovereigns riding on two weeks ago Thursday.”

“Dorian!” Cecily scolded. Then she began counting. “… actually, you won your bet. But don’t you dare tell Cullen people were gambling on this.” She placed a finger on his chest for emphasis. Dorian simply laughed and hugged her.

“I must say I’m impressed. How have you managed to keep this so quiet?” he asked. “Are you slipping out of each others’ beds in the middle of the night to avoid detection? I wouldn’t have thought the Commander so sneaky.”

“We haven’t even—I am not telling you this,” Cecily said, blushing.

Dorian groaned. “What do you _mean,_ you haven’t even?”

“We’re taking things slowly.”

“Of course you are. How nauseatingly romantic of you.” The Tevinter mage’s eyes glinted merrily. “I insist on hearing all of the details when you do.”

“Absolutely not,” Cecily said, laughing. “Would you tell _me_ all of the details if you were bedding someone?”

Dorian cleared his throat. “I. Well. No, I haven’t been.”

Cecily’s jaw dropped. “ _Dorian_! Who?”

He paused for a moment. “The Iron Bull,” he said. He was looking at her as if he wasn’t quite certain how she would respond.

Cecily raised her eyebrow. “I have to know: who seduced who? Because he’s been eyeing you ever since I dragged you two out to the Western Approach.”

Dorian’s expression relaxed into a smile. “He seduced me, of course. And anything else he tells you is a ridiculous lie. Now then.” He released her shoulders and slid his arm through hers. “Come with me. I need you to tell Bull.”

Cecily stood with him and smiled. “Is there a specific reason?”

“Who do you think owes me five sovereigns?”

As they crossed the Skyhold courtyard towards the tavern, Cecily noticed Mother Giselle, standing in the gardens and watching them. Her face was serious, concerned. Cecily made a mental note to speak to her when she had a moment. Giselle would approach her if anything were truly wrong, she hoped, but she did not like the unhappy look in the Revered Mother’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

By nightfall, it seemed as if everyone knew.

Cassandra sternly advised Cullen not to let himself be distracted, or to let himself distract her, before saying, “You are good for each other. Treasure what you have.” Which was a much more romantic sentiment than Cullen had expected from the Seeker, and he was moved by it—although it did make him curious about the books she was reading.

"The task before our Inquisitor is difficult; it is good that she has someone with whom she can find respite," Solas told him seriously.

Others were less poetic. “Good for you, Curly,” Varric said as he and Cullen passed in the hall. “I hope she makes you crack a smile once in a while, it’ll be healthy.”

“Heard about you and the boss. Finally. I thought someone was going to have to draw you two a diagram,” The Iron Bull told him during their afternoon sparring match.

Sera just looked at him and chortled something about peaches that he did _not_ ask her to repeat.

It was unexpectedly nice to realize how many people at Skyhold cared about them enough to notice and wish them well. Even so, Cullen was feeling a bit wrung out by the time he saw Cecily the next morning. And more than a little ready to escape the attention, however well-meaning.

“How has it been?” she asked anxiously, as they looked over the war table and waited for Leliana and Josephine.

“Better than I’d expected,” he admitted, taking her hand. “I had a thought, if you’ll indulge me?”

“By all means,” she said with a little smile.

“I thought it could be nice to—that is to say, I'm leaving for the Hinterlands tomorrow to oversee some troop deployments. There's something nearby that I would like to show you. Do you think you might have some time?”

Her grin made every embarrassing comment more than worth it. “I think we’re in luck, Commander.” She pulled a report from the pile. “It just so happens that there’s a dragon in the Hinterlands.”

 

* * *

 

When he had first met the Inquisitor, back when he’d been Blackwall, he had not entirely understood her. He’d quickly developed a vague sense of the _type_ of person she was—a Bann’s daughter, cool, serious, accustomed to being obeyed—and patterned his behavior accordingly. They would not be friends, he knew. But her cause was good, she was a fair and thoughtful leader, and he could play the loyal retainer for such a person.

He had been thoroughly shocked the first time he saw Sera run up behind the Herald, smack her playfully between the shoulderblades, and yell, “Oi! Cecily! Guess what I am!”

The elf began growling and moving her hands in the air, her fingers tightened into claws; the Herald had giggled, seeming genuinely amused by Sera’s silliness. “Um. You’re … Varric?”

“Well, if you’re not going to take this seriously, I won’t bother,” Sera complained. “Seriously! Raaaargh!”

“A demon?” she’d said dryly.

“There ya go. Now you do one, Blackwall,” Sera had said.

He had made an excuse—something about not having a talent for playacting, an ironic claim now that he thought about it—and he had never been able to bring himself to be as familiar with the Herald as most of the others she took into battle. But he had looked at her with new eyes from that point forward. Not every Bann’s daughter would have deigned to speak to an elven archer with food on her tunic, much less laughed at her jokes.

Cecily Trevelyan was not just a good leader—she was a good woman. She had spared him execution in Orlais, but he did not expect that she would ever trust him again. So he was surprised, and not a little anxious, when he found her waiting for him in the barn one evening, a few days after his return to Skyhold.

“Inquisitor,” he said, his stomach twisting.

“I—I’ve been meaning to ask." She ran a nervous finger over the griffon carving. "What should I call you now?”

He knew he should say  _Rainier._ But … “Perhaps we could consider Blackwall a title. Like Inquisitor,” he suggested. “It reminds me of what I ought to be.”

“Good evening, then, Blackwall," she said, only hesitating a bit around the name. "I just came to ask how things have been. Since you came back, I mean. You’ve not been seen much outside the barn.”

 _A foolish question._ “I’m bloody marvelous,” he growled. “Aside from everyone hating me and talking about the worst thing I ever did, it’s been a splendid homecoming.” The self-pity he heard in those words made him flinch; he softened his voice. “My apologies, my Lady. I know it is no more than I deserve. But it seems wise to keep to myself.”

She shook her head. “I knew it would not be easy for the others, or for you. Some of them may not forgive you. But some of them may surprise you. And Sera is worried about you. I believe her exact words were ‘can you check on Beardy to make sure he’s not gonna drown himself in his basin, yeah?’”

He chuckled; the Inquisitor’s imitation of Sera’s accent was actually rather good. “I will visit her, then. I promise.”

She nodded approvingly. “I’ll be going to the Hinterlands tomorrow. There are reports of a dragon terrorizing the local livestock. Are you interested? Sera’s coming, and I promise to leave Vivienne here.”

“Leave Skyhold?  _Maker_ , yes,” he said instinctively. “I mean—my sword is yours, my Lady.”

Her mouth curved—just a brief flicker of amusement, but a welcome one. “We leave at first light. I’ll see you tomorrow, Blackwall.”

 

* * *

 

There were times when Varric missed The Hanged Man.

What he missed most, of course, were those comfortable games of Wicked Grace. Watching Isabela to make sure she didn’t palm cards, reminding Daisy not to set her hand down face-up, coaxing a smile out of Fenris in spite of the elf’s best efforts and laughing at whatever one-liner Hawke tossed out next.

But he also missed the bar itself, even though The Hanged Man was definitely no prize. Barely a night went by without a brawl (often involving Isabela), the whiskey was awful and the ale was worse, and pretty much every square inch of the floor had been vomited on within the past week. Oddly, those were the things he’d liked about it. The Inquisition’s tavern was comfortable, but he missed that grime, the sense that you were taking your life into your hands by drinking from this place’s tankards.

Of course, all taverns had one thing in common: gossip. So Varric was not surprised when he sat down in the Inquisition’s tavern that evening and immediately heard one soldier telling another, “You know he’s screwing the Herald.”

The dwarf suppressed a groan. He knew the soldiers were bound to talk about their Commander and their Inquisitor—although he was surprised that the news had spread so quickly from their inner circle. But if these two were going to be crude they could at least be _creative_ about it.

“I’d heard that, yeah,” a second soldier said, younger and stockier than the first. “You think he’s teaching her blood magic?”

Well, _that_ made no sense. Varric edged closer.

“Maybe. I mean, he _is_ from Tevinter. You’d think the Seeker would have gotten rid of him by now. He must have Her Worship right where he wants her.” That comment was followed by a very vulgar chortle.

Varric’s hand tightened around his tankard. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to look at the two men. “Nah. You’re both idiots.”

The two soldiers glowered when they realized he was talking to them. “What’s it to you?” one of them asked.

“Everyone knows the Commander’s courting the Inquisitor—it’s obvious she’s crazy about him,” Varric said genially. “And Sparkler, er, Dorian’s not a blood mage. Believe me, I saw enough of them in Kirkwall to know.”

The two soldiers muttered something that didn’t sound entirely complimentary. Varric sighed. “Look, gentlemen. Do yourselves a favor and don’t spread that nonsense around. If Curly hears you, you’ll find yourselves scrubbing latrines with your toothbrushes. And that’s if you’re lucky. Imagine what would happen if Seeker Cassandra overheard that kind of talk about the Herald.”

“Mind your own business,” the younger soldier muttered. The two of them stood and moved elsewhere in the tavern.

Varric rubbed the bridge of his nose and grimaced. He knew Cullen wouldn't thank him for spreading the news, but in Varric’s experience the only way to counter that kind of story was by offering another story to take its place. Unfortunately, a sweet tale about the Inquisitor being courted by her handsome Commander was not nearly as tantalizing as the image of the Herald of Andraste lying naked with a Tevinter blood mage. The fact that _his_ story was true probably wasn’t going to affect which one people believed.

_Well. Shit._


	8. Respite

* * *

 

“The boy. Should I meet him?”

Naia had been close to sleep, but Zev’s question quickly woke her. He was sitting up, his knees bent, his arms curled loosely around his legs, looking out into the darkness in their room at Skyhold. She pushed herself into a seated position and slid closer to him. After so many years together his body was as familiar to her as her own; instinctively, she knew just where to settle her elbows and knees and shoulders so they would fit comfortably together, sitting side by side.

She had told Zev about Morrigan and Kieran as soon as he had reached Skyhold. He’d been stunned, understandably, and then he had dropped the subject for several days while they planned Blackwall’s recapture from the Val Royeaux prison. Naia hadn’t brought it up again; she could tell when Zev was just taking time to work something out. “Do you want to meet him?” she asked.

“I still do not know,” Zev said, running a hand through his hair. “I never knew my own father—although that term hardly seems to apply to me. What would I say to him?”

“Morrigan said she hasn’t told him anything about that night,” Naia said. “I don’t imagine she would thank you, if you told Kieran your part in it.”

“Indeed, that was the bargain. Create his life, save yours in the process, and never seek out her or the child,” Zev said simply, with no bitterness. “It is a bargain I am content with. Even if Morrigan would permit such a thing I would make a poor father. And yet—yet I cannot help but wonder about the boy.”

“Maybe those aren’t the only two options,” Naia suggested. “Be his father or never meet him, I mean. And—if you do think it’s something you might want, you may not get a chance like this again. It took us eleven years to wind up in the same place as Morrigan once more.”

“You are wise as always, my Warden,” Zev said, sliding his arm around her waist. “I—I will think on it further.” His chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. “You said he seems well? Happy?”

“Yes. And … he’s _normal_. I mean, he’s a little odd, formal manners, but he’s not at all what I would have expected. As strange as it sounds, I think Morrigan has been a good mother. She is clearly proud of the boy, and protective of him.”

“I am glad for him, then. And for her.” Zevran turned his head to look at Naia. “I have never regretted the choice I made that night. But I will admit, knowing the boy is well would put some part of me at ease.”

“I felt the same way after I met him,” Naia admitted.

They lay back in bed after that, Naia’s head resting on Zev’s chest, his arm coiled around her shoulders. His heartbeat was strong and solid under her ear, and Naia took comfort in that—but Alistair was not the only reason she wanted to find a cure for the Taint.

_I’m glad Kieran isn’t what I feared he might be. But I want to recover the other price you paid for my life, Zev. I want to know the Calling will never come for you._

 

* * *

 

“That. Was. _Incredible_!”

Cullen could hear The Iron Bull from all the way across camp. He was within a paragraph of finishing his report, but he put it down immediately and began walking towards the source of the shout. He’d known it would be difficult to oversee troop movements and read updates on the Inquisition’s progress while Cecily faced a dragon, but knowing that in advance didn’t make it any easier to endure when it happened. He took immediate heart at the jocular sound of Bull’s voice; surely he wouldn’t be that happy if anything terrible had happened?

“Maker’s breath!” he burst out when he saw Cecily’s small party.

The Iron Bull was grinning like a maniac. He also sported a large, ugly-looking burn across his right shoulder and down his back. Blackwall’s beard had lost a good inch and his overlong hair was singed and crinkled; the parts of his face that had not been covered by his helmet looked uncomfortably red, and one of his sleeves had been scorched black. Sera was covered in mud—although to be fair, that might not have been the dragon’s fault.

Frantically, his eyes sought Cecily. She, of course, was hovering anxiously behind Bull, her eyes focused on the burn. “We need to get you to the healer,” she insisted. She looked uninjured, although it was difficult to tell, since Bull’s bulk stood between them.

“Bah. It’s just a little kiss. We killed a _dragon_ , boss! Come _on_! Show some excitement!”

“Dorian is going to have my head if I return you to Skyhold with half the skin on your back gone,” she said crisply. “Healer. Now.”

The Iron Bull met Cullen’s eye and gave him a long-suffering look. Cullen frowned at him. “You’ll find no support from me. You heard the Inquisitor.” The mercenary muttered something in Qunari and headed for the healer’s tent.

Finally, Cullen got a good look at the Inquisitor.

Her legs were coated with mud from foot to thigh, a fine dusting of soot covered her hair and shoulders, and there was a deep red-and-black burn on the back of her right hand. Her overcoat, apparently, had gotten the worst of it; a large chunk of the back was burned clean away, leaving only a curling black edge that shed flakes of ash in her wake as she walked.

She caught his gaze and grimaced in apology. “As it turns out, dragons breathe fire.”

“I think I’d heard that, yes,” Cullen said dryly.

* 

He heard the full story roughly an hour later, mostly from a now-healed Iron Bull, with occasional additions and pantomime from Sera. Well, it was less a story and more a string of enthusiastic adjectives. Apparently Qunari held dragons in high regard, and Bull was exultant at having faced and killed one in combat.

“But the _boss_! She just takes one look at that thing and starts in with the ice spells. Froze the beast’s foot near through, brought it to its knees,” Bull chortled. “Your lady’s got a strategic mind, Commander.”

A warm feeling of pride spread in Cullen’s chest. “Do I want to know how she managed to burn off half her coat?”

“Probably not,” Blackwall said.

“Dodging under its breath to save this idiot,” Sera said simultaneously, pointing to Bull.

“I had things under control!” Bull protested.

“Sure ya did,” the elf said, rolling her eyes.

“It was a calculated risk,” Blackwall said, watching Cullen closely. “She is not reckless, have no fear.”

“Maker’s breath, what are you telling him?” Cecily asked as she emerged from the healer’s tent. The burns were gone, as was the now-ruined coat, and she had clearly bathed; her hair was darker from the water and was clinging to her neck in damp, appealing curls. Cullen swallowed a bit, then flushed when he heard Bull chuckle under his breath.

“The truth, I expect,” he told her. “You’re all right?”

She nodded. “It was—it was like fighting pure magic, Cullen. I’m almost sorry we had to kill it.”

“Ugh. You spend too much time with Solas,” Sera groaned. “It tried to get us dead, we got it dead instead. Good day, end of story.”

“I have to agree with Sera. If it was the dragon or you, I think you made the right decision,” he said, rising from his seat. “I—I imagine you’re tired.”

She caught his meaning immediately. “We still have several hours of daylight, Commander—will that be time enough to make your trip?”

Bull muttered something that Cullen pretended not to hear. “Yes, Inquisitor, it’s not far.”

* 

His lake was much as he remembered it—cool, deep green with trees and lilypads, a bit foggy, and blissfully quiet. Cecily beamed when she took it in, and her smile only warmed when he told her about this place, what it had meant to him growing up.

He remembered the coin his brother had given him, the one that had seen him through Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and Haven and the half dozen other times he probably should have been killed. “Humor me,” he said impulsively, holding it out to her. “We don’t know what you will face before the end. It can’t hurt.”

She brought her fingers to rest against its worn silver face, then seemed to change her mind. “I—I think I want you to keep it,” she said, curling his fingers around the coin. “I couldn’t bear it if _your_ luck ran out.”

“Neither could I,” he said, tucking the token back into his pocket. “Especially now that I have some.”

As if to confirm his good luck, she leaned forward and kissed him, her lips warm. This was familiar, now, as was what came next—her hands pressed against his back, her body molding into his. And yet somehow his hands still shook a bit when they found the buttons on her jacket, and she still made that soft little noise of appreciation when his hand slid to her breast, her bare skin warm against his palm. She ran her hands under his tunic, her fingers pressing the tension from his muscles and tracing over his old scars, her pleasure at touching him evident from the way her mouth smiled underneath his.

They had not gone much beyond this, beyond kissing and a few intimate caresses. He wanted this woman, desperately, and part of him was screaming in frustration at his caution, at the way he always stopped short of asking her to spend the night. But taking her into his bed could mean letting her see the dreams—even a sound sleeper would wake during the worst of them, he suspected. And the idea of making love to her and then leaving her to sleep alone seemed even worse. And then there would be the inevitable gossip when one of them was seen leaving the other’s room in the morning, and then …

“Cullen?”

He realized that he had stopped kissing her, that his hands had dropped to her waist and he was resting his forehead against hers, breathing sharply. “I … _Cecy._ I’m sorry.”

Lyrium withdrawal spread through him like a wildfire.

He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, as if that might hold back the pain. He should have expected this; his last attack had been weeks ago, and it was too much to hope that he would never have another. But of _course_ it came upon him now. _It’s no more than I deserve for boasting about my good luck_ , he thought wildly.

Cecily put her hand at the side of his face. “What do you need?”

He gritted his teeth and tried not to shake too visibly. “I … I don’t know. I don’t know how long this will last.”

Cecily’s hands found his and she began pulling him to the shore, away from the now-dangerous water. When they stepped off the dock he sat heavily on the ground and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head on them, trying to breathe, trying to remember where he was. _Honnleath. My lake. Not Lake Calenhad. Nothing like Lake Calenhad._

“Do you want to be alone?” Cecily asked, kneeling beside him. He forced his eyes open and noticed, ridiculously, that she had hastily refastened her jacket and that the buttons did not quite match the buttonholes. “I can come back in a bit, or take you back to camp if you’re well enough to ride. Or we can stay here. Anything you need.” Her voice was calm, but the little line between her eyebrows gave her away. 

_She should go. She shouldn’t have to share this._

“Please stay,” he whispered.

* 

An hour later—or maybe two or three, it was hard to tell in this densely thicketed area—the stabbing pain had subsided, leaving only the dull afterache that Cullen knew would plague him for up to a day afterwards.

They were sitting together under a tree, with Cecily’s back against the trunk and his back against her chest, her smaller frame supporting his larger one surprisingly well. Her arms were wrapped around him, her legs rested on either side of his, and her cheek was nestled against his hair. It did not lessen the pain, exactly. But it was comforting nonetheless.

Cullen reached up his hand to squeeze hers. “It’s over, I think. The worst of it anyway. I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“Cullen Rutherford, if you apologize again I swear I will hit you,” she told him. “Has it been bad, of late? You’ve seemed better.”

“I _have_ been better,” he assured her, wishing his voice didn’t sound so shaky. “Much better. This is the first time in weeks that this has happened. The Maker certainly has a vicious sense of timing, doesn’t He? I’m …”

Cecily’s arms tightened around him. “ _It’s all right_.”

He relaxed back into her, breathing through the tightness in his chest, the slight shake in his limbs. “It helps that you’re here. It's slightly embarrassing, but it helps,” he joked weakly.

Cecily ran a hand over his hair. “When I first arrived at the Circle I used to take books back to my room—I didn’t realize they weren’t ours to take out of the library,” she said, clearly beginning a story.

“Then one of the Enchanters gathered all of the apprentices together and gave us a scathing lecture on taking care of the Circle’s knowledge. He vowed we would all be scrubbing floors for a month if the books weren’t returned. I didn’t want anyone to know I was responsible, so I waited until after curfew and put all of the books in a sack I made from my bedsheets. I was going to sneak them back into the library without anyone ever being the wiser.

“Well. I didn’t know how to tie a proper knot, so as soon as I reached the top of the stairs the sack fell apart. Every apprentice in the Circle came running out to see what the noise was. They found me scrambling to shove twenty books back into my bedsheet.”

Cullen laughed at the image—the laugh felt rusty in his aching chest, but nice. “So you were caught?”

“In fact, some of the other apprentices helped me sneak the books back to the library. Most of them thought I was a bit of a dolt, and I was teased about it for months afterwards, but they did help me, and after that I actually made some friends.” She squeezed his hand. “A bit of embarrassment isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

Cullen closed his eyes, breathed in the smell of the lake, the feeling of her arms around him. “I think I agree.”


	9. Loyalty

* * *

 

Dorian was starting to get the feeling that people were watching him.

With the Inquisitor, her Commander, and Bull all gone to the Hinterlands, Dorian had rather more time on his hands than usual and no one to play chess with. He found himself visiting parts of Skyhold that he did not normally frequent, and he noticed that he seemed to be the object of more attention than he would have expected. Soldiers turned their heads when he passed; some actually _pointed_. Even a few pilgrims seemed to stop to stare when they saw him. Dorian was not a fool—he knew that a Tevinter mage would be the subject of some curiosity in the South. But the stares and quiet whispers seemed excessive even by those standards, and he was certain that some of the attention was new.

Finally he cornered Varric, Skyhold’s most attentive gossip-follower. “Is there some reason that everyone is looking at me as though I’d been caught doing something obscene on the floor of the chapel?” he demanded.

Normally Varric would have been delighted to share something that he knew and Dorian didn’t. In this instance, the dwarf grimaced and was silent. “Tell me, Varric.”

“You’re not going to like this, Sparkler,” he warned.

Varric was right. He didn’t.

Dorian confined himself to the Inquisition’s paltry library for several days after his conversation with Varric. He knew he was sulking but did not particularly care. It was absolutely, _infuriatingly_ unfair that in Tevinter he was a pariah for preferring men, while in the South he was now a pariah for allegedly bedding the wrong woman. And that wasn’t even the worst rumor! No, the worst was the one about blood magic. Or maybe the one about him secretly being an agent of the Magesterium sent to entice the Herald into pledging the Inquisition to Tevinter.

He should have expected this, he supposed. And the most obnoxious part about it was, part of him couldn’t blame the Inquisition’s people for looking at him with suspicion. Hadn’t he come from Tevinter because of his disgust with all that was wrong in his homeland? Some of the South’s ideas about Tevinter were ridiculous, of course, but there was more truth in the worst of the rumors than he would have liked.

Still, he’d sweat and bled and stomped up and down the most ghastly places in Thedas on behalf of the Inquisition. He’d _helped,_ damn it. Some part of him, some silly, childish part, had hoped they might notice.

Almost out of spite, he waited in the courtyard for Cecily and her team when they were spotted returning from the Hinterlands. He noticed almost immediately that the skin on Bull’s back was too smooth and puffed and new—he’d been healed, but the injury had been serious. _Idiot man_ , Dorian thought, torn between annoyance and worry. The Commander, too, looked a bit paler than he should, and the careful way Cecily was watching him told Dorian that Cullen was not entirely well.

Behind them, a group of the Inquisition’s soldiers bore a dragon’s skull in a cart.

“Well. It looks like you had an exciting trip,” Dorian said, keeping his tone light.

The Iron Bull laughed and gave him a grin that promised all sorts of _very_ interesting things later. “Next time there’s a dragon, you’ve got to come too,” he said, clapping Dorian on the back. “There’s nothing like it. _Dragons_!”

Cecily rolled her eyes fondly. “Prepare yourself. He’s been like that ever since we set eyes on the creature.”

Dorian smiled back at her—and immediately caught two Inquisition soldiers exchanging a knowing look. He cursed his stupid pride for making him come down here and greet everyone in full view of all Skyhold. “Inquisitor,” he said formally, forcing the smile from his face. “When you have a moment, there’s something you probably ought to know.”

Her brows drew together at his serious tone. “Of course. Let me get rid of my gear. I’ll meet you up in the library.”

 *

It was not long before Dorian heard soft footsteps ascending the stairs to the library—but when he turned, they did not belong to Cecily. It was Mother Giselle.

“May I claim a moment of your time?” the priestess asked, her soft Orlesian accent laced with steel.

“Revered Mother. What may I do for you?” he asked, dread filling him.

The priestess folded her hands in front of her and looked at him very seriously. “I am here to speak with you about the Inquisitor.”

“What about her?” Dorian asked. _As if I couldn’t guess._ He decided to feign confusion. “Is she all right?”

Giselle inclined her head. “Yes, of course. But I have come to you because that may not be the case for long, if you remain such a visible presence at her side.”

A heavy lump settled in Dorian’s chest. It was no different than he expected, and yet. And yet. “I see. What is your concern, exactly, Revered Mother?”

Mother Giselle began to speak, but before she could, a new voice cut in. “I would be interested in this as well.”

Dorian turned. Cecily was climbing the stairs to the library. She had heard the entire exchange.

“Inquisitor.” Mother Giselle struggled to speak for a moment. “I … This man is of Tevinter. The rumors alone …” she trailed off.

“Rumors. And what, exactly, do these rumors say?” Cecily asked, crossing her arms.

“I could not repeat such things to you, my lady Inquisitor,” Mother Giselle said uncomfortably.

The Inquisitor turned to him. “Dorian, do _you_ have any idea what this is about?”

“Oh, the usual nonsense,” he said, feigning indifference—badly. “I’m teaching you blood magic, I’m here to turn the Inquisition into an arm of the Tevinter Chantry. Oh, also, we’re intimate and I’m whispering all sorts of evil ideas into your ear as pillow talk. Nothing all that inventive, I’m afraid.”

Mother Giselle looked a bit appalled at his phrasing, but said, “I am afraid those are the rumors, my Lady Inquisitor. You must understand how this man’s presence at your side shakes the people’s good opinion of you.”

Cecily stood very still for a moment.

“Mother Giselle, I have deep respect for you, and I am certain you mean well,” she said in her most detached voice, the one she used when pronouncing judgment from the Skyhold throne. “But you may tell those concerned that these rumors are groundless. Dorian is my friend. He has saved my life more than once. And therefore, I do not care what gossip people choose to spread about him, or about me. His presence at the Inquisition is not up for debate. He has done more for us than all of the rumor-mongers put together.” By this point, the cool Inquisitor voice had given way to something much more heated. “I do not want to hear about this again.”

Mother Giselle inclined her head stiffly. “I have offended. I apologize. If you feel the man is without ulterior motive, I suppose there is nothing further to be discussed. I must beg forgiveness of you both.” And with that, she walked away.

Cecily gaped after her. Then she turned to Dorian, her face pale and eyes wide. Suddenly, two spots of color flared on her cheeks and she burst out, “If anyone ever says anything to you about this again you have my permission to set them on fire!” She began pacing furiously between Dorian and the bookshelves. “How _dare_ they? How dare they spread such vile talk as if they know the first thing about you!”

Dorian tried to remember if he’d ever seen the Inquisitor lose her temper before. He didn’t think so. The fact that she’d done so over him was … rather astonishing. “It’s quite all right, Cecily,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No, that’s a lie. These rumors bother me as well. But I suppose it’s inevitable that the dread Tevinter magister hovering around the Inquisitor will become the object of gossip.”

“You’re not a magister, you’re an altus,” Cecily corrected, managing a wobbling smile.

In spite of his dark mood, Dorian smiled back. “So you do listen to me! How sweet of you. As for the rumors that we’re intimate, that’s your own fault, really. If you and the Commander would just be a bit more indiscreet, well, no one who’s met the man would doubt that he’d run me through if he thought I had evil plans for you.”

“I rather think it’s _your_ fault for being so handsome,” Cecily shot back. “They can’t imagine how I could control myself around you.”

Dorian threw his head back and laughed. “Indeed, I don’t know how you manage,” he said. “Come on. I’m going to get drunk. It’s been that kind of a day. That kind of a week, really.”

“What if you and The Iron Bull were less discreet? That might help,” Cecily suggested jokingly, falling into step with him as he moved towards the stairs.

Dorian paused for a moment and caught her arm. “Cecily. I want you to know … I have precious few friends. But I count you among them. Perhaps first among them. And I will stand at your side against Corypheus, or my countrymen, or spurious rumors, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Cecily gave him a sisterly hug around the shoulders. “Thank you, Dorian. I will try not to take on anything worse than Corypheus.”

“I would appreciate that. Oh, and try not to die. I _would_ notice you were gone.”

 

* * *

           

Zevran stood in the Skyhold courtyard and watched Morrigan for a long time, trying to decide whether or not he would approach her.

The years had been very good to the sorceress; her features had lost the roundness of youth, but were no less beautiful, and her yellow eyes were still captivating. Her expression was still cool, superior, amused at the pettiness of those around her, but there was a maturity about her now—not a girl assuming she knew more than everyone else, but a woman who _did_ know more than most and was wise enough to realize it. She seemed both more and less frightening.

Morrigan seemed to sense his gaze; she turned, met his eyes, raised her brow—and did nothing. The choice, apparently, would have to be his.

Before he could lose his courage, he called out, “Lady Morrigan. A word, if I may?”

“I suppose I cannot stop you,” she replied evenly. “I had wondered if you might wish to speak with me, despite our bargain.”

“In fairness, my dear Morrigan, I did _not_ seek you out. We simply happened to be in the same castle at the same time, for entirely different reasons.” He smiled at her. “Terribly strange how these things happen.”

“Do get to the point,” Morrigan sighed. “I find the years have given me no greater tolerance for your prattle.”

“Very well.” Zevran took a breath. “I would like to meet the boy, if you will permit it. I shall tell him nothing of my—well, I shall tell him nothing, save that I knew his mother during the Blight.”

For a moment he thought Morrigan would refuse, but after a pause she jerked her head in something like a nod and said, “Very well. Follow me.”

She led him through Skyhold’s audience chamber and down a hallway at the side, up to a small set of rooms that she apparently occupied. A young boy was seated at a desk in front of their window, his eyes focused outside, daydreaming, as a large book sat before him.

“Mother!” he said, quickly dropping his eyes and turning a page.

“You may abandon your book for now, little man,” the Witch of the Wilds said with unexpected tenderness. “I have brought someone who wishes to meet you.”

Kieran sighed with relief and pushed back from the desk, then moved to join them. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Morrigan, but Zevran could see that his ears were just a bit sharper than they might have been with two human parents.

“Kieran, this is … a friend of the Hero of Ferelden’s,” Morrigan said. “Someone I knew long ago, before you were born.”

“My name is Zevran Arainai,” Zev said, making the boy a little bow. “A pleasure, Kieran.”

Kieran looked up at him, curious and unafraid—the kind of innocent expression that had been beaten out of Zev long before he’d reached Kieran’s age. “You know my mother too?”

“I do indeed. We fought together during the Blight.”

“Was it scary?” the boy asked. “Ancient things awoke during that Blight. I dream about them, sometimes.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened in alarm, but Zevran had expected this. Well, perhaps not references to dreams about ancient things, specifically, but the boy could hardly carry an Archdemon’s soul and not have something mystical about him. “It was, at times,” Zevran admitted. “But it was not always so terrible. Some of it was actually quite fascinating.”

“I think those things _would_ be interesting. I wish _I_ could see them—here, for real, not in dreams,” the boy sighed wistfully.

“I am certain you will see many interesting things in your life,” Zevran said, trying to keep the knowing wryness from his voice. _As if it could be helped, given your heritage._ “Kieran. I wish you to know that, should you ever need help for any reason, Naia and I will be most glad to aid you. We may be difficult to find, sometimes, but Sister Leliana and Warden-Commander Howe will usually know how to contact us.”

The boy seemed a bit puzzled at this, but all he said was, “Thank you.”

Morrigan’s yellow eyes glowed; Zevran thought she was unhappy, until she echoed, “Yes. Thank you. That is … most kind.”

 *

Naia was waiting for him in the garden.

“Well?” she asked anxiously, standing as he approached.

Zevran took her hands. “He is a strange child, as you said. But—but I am glad I have met him. Even with such a formidable mother, it cannot hurt for the boy to know that there are others who would help him, if he needed it.”

He laughed a bit. “It is odd, is it not, that I sired a child in spite of the Taint, when there is so much worry over Alistair doing so?”

Their eyes met, widening in realization.

“Andraste’s blood. I’m an idiot!” Naia said, clapping her hand to her forehead. “How could I not think to ask Morrigan?”

*

Ten minutes later, Naia was standing in front of the sorceress, explaining what she hoped to do. “You know more about the Taint, and the Blights, than most Wardens,” she finished, hoping a little flattery might help. “Do you know anything that might help us replicate what happened to Fiona?”

Morrigan’s yellow eyes glittered, amused; she had caught the clumsy flattery, but was not offended by it. “I do not know how to prevent the Calling, or cleanse the Taint itself,” she began. “Perhaps I could if I were to study the Blight in greater detail, but with the knowledge I now possess—no. I know of nothing that would save your life, or Zevran’s, or Alistair’s. I am sorry.”

It had been too much to hope for, Naia knew, but she didn’t bother to pretend she hadn’t hoped just a little. “What about your ritual?” she asked. “You were certain it would result in a child, even with a Warden father. Is there anything in it that could help Alistair with an heir?”

Morrigan frowned thoughtfully. “Most aspects of the ritual, of course, were designed to draw the Old God’s soul. But … yes. I believe I may be able to help you.” She arched an eyebrow at Naia. “If I tell you what I know, and write it down so that another mage could learn it, will this clear the debt between us? Or—might you forgive my debt, and instead count the knowledge as a gift from a friend?”

Naia looked down and chuckled. “You make a strange sort of friend, Morrigan.” She raised her eyes and met Morrigan’s gaze. “But—yes. I would consider it a gift, and myself your friend.”

“Then I thank you.” The Witch of the Wilds looked at Naia with something close to regret. “Perhaps this time I will be a better one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm switching up the order of Dorian's personal quest arc a bit here -- hopefully it still makes sense!


	10. Letters

* * *

 

Leliana had known that Naia and Zevran would not remain at Skyhold, but some part of her was still wistful when the elves told her that they were headed to Denerim.

“No more vanishing acts. I promise,” Naia said, giving her a warm hug outside the stables the morning of her departure. “From now on we’ll always leave you a way to contact us.” She stepped back and held Leliana’s shoulders. “But I am _not_ leading any Inquisitions, present or future. I think you’ve done well with Lady Trevelyan, so try to keep her alive.”

“I kept _you_ alive during the Blight, did I not?” Leliana teased. “With some help, of course,” she added, nodding at Zevran.

“Why thank you, my dear Leliana,” he said. “It has been a pleasure, as always.”

When Leliana turned back to Naia, the Warden had pulled a folded letter out of her saddlebag. “Before we go, I need a favor,” she said, slightly apologetically. “In six months, if something happens to me—which it won’t,” she said quickly when she saw Leliana’s expression. “But _if_ anything happens I need you to give this to Alistair.” She handed the spymaster the letter. “Six months. No sooner. And don’t read it.”

Leliana turned the paper over in her hands. It had been a long time since anyone had trusted her not to open a letter. “I will keep it safe.”

Naia grinned. “Thank you. I promised I'd give someone a chance to get something done before I shared what's in there, but I know Alistair. If I give _him_ this letter to keep it will worry him ragged until the day he can open it.”

Impulsively, Leliana stepped forward and hugged the Hero of Ferelden again. “I will miss you. I—you remind me of the person I wish to be.”

“You will find your way back,” Naia said quietly, and with complete certainty.

 

* * *

 

“My Lady Inquisitor. Might I have a word?”

Cecily tried to keep her expression serene as she turned towards Mother Giselle. She knew the woman had only acted from concern, and she knew that the Revered Mother certainly had not been the source of the gossip, but the way Dorian had looked when he’d been forced to repeat those rumors—that was hard to forget. “Of course, Mother Giselle,” she said, only a bit coldly. “What may I do for you?”

The Revered Mother looked deeply uncomfortable. “It is good of you to speak with me. I … First, let me say that I know how this will seem, given our previous conversation about the Tevinter. But I have been in contact with his family. House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”

“Only from what Dorian has told me,” Cecily said. She knew that Dorian was not on good terms with his parents, but kept that to herself; she doubted Dorian wanted her discussing his family problems with the Revered Mother.

“Do you know much of his … situation?”

Cecily kept her face politely curious. When she said nothing, Mother Giselle continued. “The family sent me a letter describing an estrangement from their son and begging for my aid. They wish to arrange a meeting, quietly, without telling him. They fear it is the only way he will come. They will send a retainer to meet him at Redcliffe Tavern, and take him from there to see his family.”

Cecily’s mouth dropped open. She tried to think of a kind way to say what came next. “Mother Giselle, I fear you may have been misled,” she said gently. “A letter from Qarinus, seeking help with tricking one of the Inquisition’s key members into a secret meeting? It is almost certainly a Venatori trap.”

“This had occurred to me, yes,” Mother Giselle said. “Which is why I put it in your hands, Inquisitor. But I believe it is what it seems. A plea from parents who are worried about their son, who wish to understand why he left them and sought out what seems to them a strange cause.” She handed Cecily a letter bearing a heavy wax seal. “I would speak to the young man myself, but—well, he does not care for me.” Her expression admitted that perhaps he had cause.

Cecily frowned down at the letter. “I will take this under advisement. Thank you, Mother Giselle.”

As the Revered Mother walked away, Cecily ran her fingers over the heavy parchment of the letter; it felt weighty, expensive, in accordance with what little she knew of Dorian’s family. She wondered if she should take this to Leliana, but—no. _I’ll show this to Dorian first. It’s his family, after all. And if it’s a trap, perhaps he’ll know._

 *

“‘I know my son?’ What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble!”

Dorian was as agitated as Cecily had ever seen him, his handsome face tight with stress, his mouth set in anger. “This is so typical. I’m willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter.” He shook the letter in disgust. “All this talk of how he misses me, how confused they all are by my absence. He knows perfectly well why I left!”

“Why _did_ you leave?” Cecily asked.

“They don’t care for my choices, nor I for theirs,” Dorian said. His tone did not invite further questioning.

“Perhaps it’s not from your father at all, then. It could be a trap,” she suggested. “In fact, that was rather my first assumption.”

Dorian shook his head. “It looks like my father’s handwriting. And I wouldn’t put it past the man to arrange some sort of elaborate scheme to get me back to Tevinter—although once I would have said he would never stoop so low.” He sighed. “I—thank you for bringing this to me. And for not knocking me over the head yourself so you could drag me to Redcliffe without me ever being the wiser, as Mother Giselle would have had you do.” He let out a harsh little chortle. “I wonder how much they’re paying this ‘retainer’ to wait around on the chance I show up?”

“If you want to go, say the word,” Cecily said. “And if not—well, that retainer will doubtless grow quite wealthy waiting.”

He sighed. “I will think on it.” His dark eyes glinted. “Although I must admit that I am curious to see who they sent.”

 

* * *

 

It sounded so bloody easy in his head, Cullen reflected as he walked into his office two days after his return to Skyhold. A short sentence, simple. And, he hoped, not unexpected. But he wanted it to be _right_. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure what _right_ would look like. Should he tell her what she meant to him, how much he admired her courage and her kindness and her mind? Tell her how beautiful she was? Or simply kiss her and then ask, _Cecily, will you spend the night with me?_ Perhaps the last option would be best, given his talent for fumbling what he meant to say when it came to these things.

He thought he would have to fight to focus on his work that day. The report at the top of his pile, however, immediately drew his full attention.

> _Commander—Our efforts have borne fruit. Red Templars have been spotted escorting the supplies you told us to watch for. See the enclosed maps and reports from our patrols. Shall we prepare a squadron?_

After he had read the reports, and examined the maps, and made very, very sure, Cullen lowered the papers and drew a shallow, shuddering breath. The Inquisition had found Samson—and the Inquisitor would have to go to face him.

He could not always be at her side. But he could be there for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and left kudos or comments! I decided to end Part 3 when Naia leaves Skyhold; Part 4 will go back to more Inquisition-centric stuff. I'm hoping to post the first chapter of Part 4 soon!


End file.
